


check yes juliet

by clairelutra (exosolarmoon)



Series: check yes juliet [1]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Identity Reveal, Irony, marinette loves her crime-fighting partner and no one will ever convince me otherwise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5000668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exosolarmoon/pseuds/clairelutra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was never meant to hear it.</p>
<p>It was just a wry observation during a particularly smooth battle with an akuma, one she hadn’t even realized she’d voiced until her partner in crime stiffened beside her.</p>
<p>
  <em>“If only asking out my crush was this easy.”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to tumblr users catxnoir, ursopanda, and gelema for the original concept!
> 
> Cross-posted on [tumblr](http://clairelutra.tumblr.com/tagged/check%20yes%20juliet/chrono) and [FFN](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11559526/1/check-yes-juliet).

He was never meant to hear it.

It was just a wry observation during a particularly smooth battle with an akuma, one she hadn’t even realized she’d voiced until her partner in crime stiffened beside her.

_“If only asking out my crush was this easy.”_

“Your... crush?” Chat Noir echoed, blank and quiet.

Ladybug sincerely wished she could bite out her tongue. There was a _reason_ she’d never told Chat about Adrien, and the pained flash in his bright green eyes was it.

She’d never wanted to hurt him, ever. He was one of her best friends, her teammate, her (platonic) other half, and she would be dead or insane a thousand times over if it weren’t for him, and if keeping him as a friend meant putting up with his over-the-top flirting and lewd grins, then so be it. She wouldn’t trade him for the world.

She could never quite believe his feelings were genuine--nobody who could fire off lines like that was genuine--but, on the off-chance that he was, she’d kept her mouth shut on the topic of Adrien and her hopeless crush. It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t like they really gossiped much, anyway; there was no time for it between the akuma and the city-saving and the timers on their Miraculous.

Thankfully, the akuma relaunched it’s attack, saving her from having to come up with a response to that, and Ladybug threw herself back into the battle, relieved.

Chat Noir followed her, backing her up as he always did, but he was subdued. No witty comments, no winks, no posturing, and Ladybug could feel her soul shrink in guilt with each passing minute of his silence.

Together, they ripped the policeman’s hat and released the akuma. She captured it and purified it and threw her lucky socket into the sky, wiping away all traces of the totalitarian regime the akuma had enabled.

She turned to Chat, longing for reassurance that he was alright, that she hadn’t just broken the heart of one of the most precious people she knew.

There wasn’t much reassurance to be found.

He looked distant, sad. The set of his shoulders was defeated, his mouth twisted in something that looked a lot like jealousy. Even his ears were drooping.

The guilty pit in her stomach grew.

“Hey,” she said, unable to take her sunny friend’s silence any longer.

He refocused on her, and she raised her fist shyly.

_I’m sorry,_ she couldn’t quite voice. _I never wanted to hurt you,_ she couldn’t say either. _I love you, please forgive me,_ stuck in her throat. _Please don’t be sad,_ sat heavy on her tongue, pressed against her lips.

He read it all anyway.

He huffed a little, self-deprecating laugh and gave her a crooked smile.

_It’s okay_ , the smile said. _I’m not okay right now, but I will be. Don’t worry._

He raised his fist in a mirror motion to hers and she grinned, the lump in her throat loosening ever so slightly.

“Mission accomplished,” they chimed together, sealing the night with a ritual.

A beep told her how little time she had left and she rocked back, instinct to leave fighting with instinct to protect her injured partner, even if his injuries were purely emotional.

He looks from her to her ear and back. “Time’s up,” he noted, a gentle permission to leave.

“Yeah,” she exhaled, taking it. She took one step back, then two. Then she was on the edge of the roof and had to turn around to properly throw her yo-yo.

“Wait,” he said, just as she’d pulled her arm back to make the throw.

She looked over her shoulder.. “Yeah?”

“Who-” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Who is this rival of mine?”

She was the one who stiffened this time. “Er,” she said intelligently.

“I’ll be well-behaved and not try a thing, I promise,” he laughed, sounding more like himself than he had since her stupid slip of tongue. “I just want to know who could’ve possibly captured _your_ heart, my lady.”

_Marinette_... Tikki nudged her, reminding her of the sand tricking through her hourglass earrings.

That, combined with the fact that Chat had said _my lady_ almost the way he always said it, was what pushed Ladybug to confess.

“Adrien. Adrien Agreste.“

She secured her yo-yo line and jumped, not wanting to actually have to converse on this topic, because if she talked about Adrien, she’d probably end up gushing (just like she always did) and Chat had taken her just _mentioning_ she had a crush badly enough, she absolutely did not want to rub salt in that wound.

Her flight meant that she completely missed the stunned, gaping look on Chat’s face.

“Wait- wait- _what!?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the love in this show so. much.
> 
> Alya spends her time trying to get Marinette together with her crush, and Nino storms Adrien's house to convince Mr. Agreste to let his son have a birthday and gets so upset when h won't he gets turned into an _akuma_ , and Chat respects Ladybug enough to close the door on finding out her identity against her wishes, and even though Ladybug is 5000% done with Chat's flirting, she still supports him and saves him and readily admits that _she needs him._
> 
> I'm not crying you're crying


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, so flattered by the response to this fic. Thank you all, so, so much. <3
> 
> About ten people requested more, and more I have delivered.
> 
> Enjoy!

_“Adrien. Adrien Agreste.”_

The words refused to compute.

Chat Noir stood on the abandoned rooftop, seconds until he depowered ticking away, trying to process three little words.

Ladybug liked Adrien Agreste.

 _He_ was Adrien Agreste.

Which would imply-...

...

(That was where his brain-hamsters went on strike. _This is too much_ , their little picket boards read, _we demand a reasonable thought workload and better pensions_.)

Chat restarted the thought.

Ladybug’s crush was named Adrien Agreste.

He was named Adrien Agreste.

Sometimes. 

Usually. 

Uh.

Plagg interrupted his mental blundering to suggest, quite reasonably, that he get off the roof, preferably _not_ by falling over the edge in his shock. As difficult as Plagg could be sometimes, he generally did try to make sure Chat didn’t kill himself.

Chat got off the roof.

He staggered home in a daze, thoughts stumbling in circles like puppies chasing their tails. It wasn’t until he’d collapsed in his bed fully dressed ( _how had he gotten home, even?_ ) that it finally sank in.

Ladybug liked him.

Ladybug liked _him_.

Oh _god_.

He wrapped his arms around his pillow and buried his face in it, blushing for the championship and wondering if he was having a heart attack.

Three hours later, to his mild surprise, he hadn’t died of... emotion (ecstasy, shock, embarrassment, shock, excitement, or shock, take your pick) but he had accepted that he wasn’t going to be getting any sleep tonight. He kept replaying Ladybug’s parting words in his mind, over and over and over and over, oscillating through joy and disbelief and bafflement and the horrible fear that he was _wrong_ somehow.

(He had a cat’s sense of hearing as Chat Noir, and Ladybug had been speaking to be heard, but he still wondered. Anything that could make him feel like _this_ he had to have misheard, right? Misunderstood? Was it really _him_ that she liked, or someone else with his name? He’d wanted this so much for so long that it just didn’t seem _possible_ that he was the one she liked.)

He had to tell her who he was. He _had_ to.

* * *

(The next day, Nino demanded to know what happened after the third time he had to stop Adrien from walking into solid architectural structures in his distraction. 

Adrien had no civilian-friend-safe answers to give, and proceeded to (attempt to) dodge Nino all day.

He was so out of it that he barely noticed bumping into _Marinette_. Marinette with the big blue eyes and soft pink lips and who looked ( _was_ ) cute in a 'I would probably have had a hard time pronouncing words around you if I hadn’t already met the love of my life’ kind of way.

She noticed his vague apology and studied him, concerned. “Are you quite, um, o-okay, Adrien?”

He congratulated her on her nearly stutter-free sentence internally (because he wasn’t all that great with people, but even _he_ knew that congratulating her on that aloud would be pretty rude).

“Head in the clouds,” he said. More specifically, his head was flying the fine line between cloud nine and hellish anxiety, but who needed to know that? “Sorry about that.”

He smiled at his classmate and she turned pink, blinking those big blue eyes up at him.

She abruptly stammered something completely incomprehensible ( _You can do it, Marinette! Don’t give in to the babble gods yet!_ ) and bolted.

 _So cute_ , he thought, watching her go,)

* * *

“What if I was Adrien Agreste?”

Chat immediately kicked himself for asking, but it’s been two days since the revelation and he has, perhaps, gone just a little bit stir-crazy.

“What if you were what?” Ladybug shouted over the din of a nearby building collapsing under the assault of hundreds of telekinetically-controlled tools.

He leaped down next to her from his perch on a store awning. “Adrien Agreste.”

She stared at him for a good five seconds, blinking big blue eyes up at him ( _...deja vu_ ) while the villain-of-the-week cackled maniacally and zoomed off to the next site of destruction. Then, suddenly, she burst out laughing.

Chat gave her an extremely unimpressed look.

She immediately clapped her hand over her mouth and gave him a sheepish, hidden smile. “Sorry.”

Chat let himself be warmed by the faintly worried glint in her eyes, and pressed on, “What if I was?”

A shadow fell over her expression, and she turned to look in the direction the akuma had gone. “...Come on, he’s getting away,” she evaded.

_...Huh?_

* * *

“Duck!”

He wasn’t really given a choice in the matter. His lady grabbed him by the scruff and forced him down next to her behind an air-conditioning unit. A good thing she did, too, because a volley of vicious-looking nails followed him close enough to clip one of his leather ears.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” he pointed out when the noise eased. He should drop it. He was trying to drop it, but his tongue wasn’t listening to him. It was listening to the burning curiosity she sparked when she straight-up refused to answer him.

She sighed, exasperated with an edge of something else he just can’t put his finger on. “What does it matter, Chat? I mean, obviously you’re _not_ Adrien-”

He spluttered. “What do you mean, _obviously?_ ” 

He _was_ Adrien, the last time he checked.

“I-I mean- Adrien is- You are-” she hissed, floundering.

He narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

“He-he’s nice and sane and-” She gestured with her hands, rather obviously torn between trying not to give offense (too late) and defending her point. “And-...”

She made tiny starts of noises, opening and closing her mouth like a landed fish for several seconds, _obviously_ searching for another suitable descriptor before taking a deep breath and spitting “ _Sane!_ ” at him.

He gaped for a good three seconds, during which his lady carefully checked their battle situation. 

“I’m-!” he started, loud in his pique.

She shut him up with a finger to his lips and a scowl.

“ _I’m sane!_ ” he protested in a whisper-shout.

That got her to stop. She gave him a very flat look and raised her hands to her head, made ‘V’ shapes with her index and middle fingers, then pressed the tips to her scalp, almost in mockery of horns or-

Ears.

“Mostly sane,” he amended, because that actually was a good point. Then he reached out and pulled her wrists down, because said wrists were covered in bright red material and were probably visible from the other side of the air-conditioning unit.

“Kitty,” she said so seriously he almost expected the next words out of her mouth to be, ‘I’m sorry to say that your son has declared missing in action.’ ( _Too many war dramas, Adrien._ ) “We are hiding behind an _air conditioner_ wearing _red spandex_ and _leather_ while we fight a man going on a _super-powered rampage_ because he didn’t get a _free ball-peen hammer_ with his twenty-seventh purchase at a _hardware store_. _Nothing_ about this is _sane_.”

He has to concede the point.

He went back to his original one. “But if I _was_ him...?”

The teasing faded from her eyes and she didn’t sigh so much as huff. “Look, you’re _not_ , you never will be, and I don’t understand why you want to know so much. It won’t change _anything_. Please just _drop it_.”

She punctuated the request (order) with a sharp tug of her wrists, and he let go, frustration and hurt bubbling up in his chest, his throat.

“Now cover me so we can purify this akuma and go _home_ ,” she snapped, leaving their shelter.

He nearly, _nearly_ let her go alone, but then he remembered the nails and followed her in anyway.

Like _hell_ he would risk losing her for real because of a stupid fight.

* * *

Ladybug tossed the lucky cushion into the air, shouting, “Miraculous Cure!”

He _had_ to try one last time. He had to. Hope and fear rose to a fever pitch in his chest.

Into the ensuing silence, he asked, “If I’m not Adrien, then who am I?”

She took a moment before answering, softly, “...You’re Chat.”

He closed the distance between them, knees shaking.

“And who else?” he said, stopping five feet from where she stood.

She turned from the dusky Paris skyline to face him, expression horribly blank.

“And who else?” he repeated, quieter, offering her the hand that wore his Miraculous and offered his trembling heart.

He saw her eyes focus on the ring and it’s two last remaining pads, and then she looked away, pain lining her eyes.

His heart plunged.

She turned back to the skyline, mouth tightening. “Look, Chat... Stop. Just... just drop it. _Please_.”

 _And there it was_.

He’d been so, so happy to think that maybe, maybe, maybe Ladybug liked him. That maybe they knew each other out of the masks, that maybe they would be able to spend time together outside of battles and stakeouts for once, that maybe they could even be real friends--could _date_ , if his luck had done a complete one-eighty overnight, maybe, maybe, maybe...

Now, he knew he’d never know.

He dropped his hand and looked away, feeling like there was something trying to eat him from the inside out. He could barely hear over the blood rushing in his ears, all of his hopes coming crashing down around his head.

He just didn’t understand _why_. It would make sense to know each other’s identities by now, wouldn’t it? It’d made sense, before, when she’d turned him down; they hadn’t known each other long, telling each other would have been a huge risk, but it’s been more than _two years_ since then. Two years of one akuma a week, at the very least, and multiple akuma a day, sometimes, almost all of them fought together. Wasn’t that long enough to figure each other out?

 _Why don’t you trust me?_ he wanted to demand. _Haven’t I proven myself to you over and over again? I thought we were friends!  
_

_Aren’t we friends?  
_

_...Was I reading us all wrong?_

(There was a shock of fear lancing his heart-- _maybe she’d never tell him._ Maybe when they come to the end of whatever this Paris-saving business was, she’ll cheer ‘mission accomplished’ with him for the last time, then turn on her heel and walk out of his life forever.

He wasn’t sure he could take that. He wasn’t sure if he could _survive_ that.)

He looked back at her. Her face was twisted in shame and guilt and a tiny bit of anger.

The hurt, defensive, vindictive part of him said, _good_. The rest of him just screamed for him to _fix it_.

“Right,” he said, forcing a (hopefully) normal expression. “Well. Until next time, Ladybug.”

That wouldn’t fix it, but he didn’t know _how_ to fix it. Running was the only option he could think of.

She only held his eye for a split second before she looked away again, folding her arms over her chest. “Yeah. Next time.”

He turned his body and made his leaden legs make the jump to the far roof, firmly telling himself that this wasn’t something to cry over as he leaped his way home.

A few tears slipped past his guard anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the villain seemed a bit strange, please consider listening to [this song](https://youtu.be/9m7SldTq8CY).
> 
> Chapter three is written and awaiting editing while I work on homework, never fear!
> 
> (Also, watch Adrien and Marinette's canon interactions and tell me he doesn't think she's even a little bit cute. Go on. I dare you. :3c)


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating has been upped to T for Marinette's implied 'teenage thoughts.'

Marinette prepared herself for bed with mechanical detachment.

If she didn’t think about it, she’d be... not _fine_ , but...

_Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it..._

She made it all the way into her bed without thinking much at all, and then, suddenly, there was nothing left to keep her thoughts away.

Her mind went to Chat’s face as he’d left as though magnetized. There had been pink lining his eyes, where his mask ended, she remembered suddenly, and she rolled onto her stomach to hide the hitching sob that clutched at her throat.

She knew she’d said what she had to to protect herself, but now she was wondering if the consequences of taking it back could possibly hurt as badly as this did. She was finding that hard to believe at the moment. She couldn’t _breathe_ for how much this hurt.

 _‘I’m sorry,’_ she mouthed into her pillow, tasting cotton and fabric softener. Futile, silent apologies to the absent and uncaring, potent as trees falling in forests and drops of water in a desert. ‘ _I’m so, so, so sorry_.’

She felt Tikki settle at her neck and start to stroke her nape.

“Would it really be so bad, letting Chat Noir know who you are?” the kwami asked gently, softly.

Marinette caught a single breath and whispered, “ _Yes._ ”

It wasn’t the whole answer, not even close, but the whole answer was long and complicated and filled with truths Marinette didn’t want to face. It was easier to lie, to decomplicate, to say that she didn’t want Chat Noir anywhere in her life that didn’t involve akuma.

Tikki accepted her answer with a little hum, and continued to stroke Marinette’s nape until she cried herself to sleep.

* * *

(The next morning, Alya took one look at Marinette’s splotchy, makeup-free face and uncoordinated clothing and wrapped her in a soft hug that lasted until the teacher began her lecture.

Pulling back at last, Marinette noticed that Adrien hadn’t come today. Sick, maybe. He’s looked pretty dazed these past few days.

Marinette tried not to be relieved.)

* * *

Marinette accepted her cup from the barista and slipped through the light crowd to the counter at the back for her single packet of sugar.

She normally didn’t need the sugar, but she normally didn’t get coffee, either. She hadn’t been sleeping well these past few days, so she needed it if she wanted to be of any use during these weekly study sessions Alya had arranged.

In the midst of pouring the packet into her cup, her eye caught on one of the open refrigerated boxes that held dairy creamers and she paused. ‘ _Organic All-Natural Dairy Creamer,_ ’ the dark green lettering read. Chat liked that one, she remembered.

( _Creamer cup hanging loosely from his lips as he intently watched the window where the akuma had been last seen, looking for all the world like he was watching a mouse-hole, and he’d jumped about a foot in the air when she’d greeted him, shoving the cup into his pocket with a speed that suggested embarrassment_ _and giving her an open, welcoming grin_.)

She shook off the memory, a sharp pang of longing in her chest, and went back to guard their chosen table, as her duties as the first person to arrive dictated.

* * *

It didn’t take Alya long to show up, and, about five minutes after her, Adrien and Nino arrived together.

They went to get their drinks and trickled back to where she’d spread their study materials over the table, drinks in hands.

Alya, the caffeine addict, got a double shot of espresso, tempered into a drinkable state by a great deal of sugar and no cream. Nino, who’d hated both tea and coffee for as long as Marinette could remember, came back with peppermint hot chocolate. Adrien sat down last, with a sixteen-ounce monstrosity of a drink that looked to contain caramel, copious amounts of whipped cream, and what may, possibly, have been coffee.

The study session began uneventfully. 

A few questions in, Adrien took a small sip of his drink, which he seemed to have been attempting to stir the whipped cream into, and frowned elegantly. He quietly excused himself, and returned a minute later with a handful of sugar packets and cups of Chat’s favorite creamer. He emptied them all into his drink and stirred.

About ten minutes later, he repeated the performance, frowning, excusing himself, getting sugar and creamer, and dumping all of them into his drink.

The third time it happened, right as Adrien was preparing to pour yet another cup of creamer into his drink, Nino snatched it out from under Adrien’s nose and took a sip. (Marinette may or may not have felt a little bit jealous. Indirect kiss!)

And promptly spit it back out again.

“ _Dude_ ,” Nino groaned through a coughing fit. “I know you like coffee with your cream and sugar, but that’s not even a drink! That’s a _sugar coma!_ ”

Alya leaned over and thumped him on the back, snickering quietly.

Adrien, get this, _Adrien pouted_. Marinette bit down on her instinctual squee as Adrien tipped the cup of creamer into his mouth for lack of over-sugared drink to put it into.

“I asked for an extra shot of espresso, and now it tastes _bad_ ,“ he grumbled, letting the plastic cup dangle from his lips.

He caught her eye and quickly removed the empty cup from his mouth, giving her a tired smile.

Marinette’s glee faded, even as her face burned with a blush, swallowed by the sinking feeling of _recognition_ in her stomach.

But no. Adrien being Chat Noir would be ridiculous, right?

_Right?_

* * *

(Their teamwork is stilted after that horrible evening, stiff where it should jell and silent where there should be banter, and that’s her fault, she _knows_.

She knows, she knows, _she knows_ that she did the right thing in keeping their identities secret. She just wishes that doing ‘the right thing’ didn’t feel so much like losing her best friend.)

* * *

“No, no! Get this!” Alya was literally vibrating in excitement, and Marinette wondered if it was the third or fourth cup of coffee that did her in. “I’ve figured out who Chat Noir is!”

Marinette smothered a groan and slumped in her floral-iron seat. She’s heard this theory from too many people lately, and by the first time she heard it, she’d heard it one too many times.

“Aha?” said Nino, pulling his head out of his textbook. “Do tell!”

“The secret identity of our one and only Chat Noir is...” Alya trailed off, circling her pointer finger by her head and clearly enjoying the theater of the whole thing. 

Marinette just wanted her to get it over with so they could go back to studying English, like they were _supposed_ to be doing.

“Is...?” Nino prompted, grinning.

“Is Adrien Agreste!” Alya proclaimed, swiveling her stray pointer finger to point directly at the poor, unsuspecting boy directly across the iron-floral table from her.

Adrien stiffened, which Marinette just had time to note was a strange reaction to such a wild accusation before he said, “That’s a little far-fetched, don’t you think? I mean, I’m about as likely to be Chat Noir as Marinette is to be Ladybug.”

He’d timed it exactly so Marinette was in the midst of swallowing a gulp of her drink (her regular this time--Lemon Chai, no milk, no sugar), and when her stomach tightened in shock, so did some of her other organs.

She choked violently, her airways pushing tea into places tea should definitely not go, including, embarrassingly, out of her nose.

She slapped her sleeve over her mouth, scrabbling blindly for a napkin, trying to breathe through the hacking coughs.

She felt someone thump her back, and press the sought-after napkins to her face. She accepted the help, figuring Alya had taken pity on her--no, wait. That was Alya leaving the table to get more napkins, and Nino was across from her, looking amused but for the worried crease between his brows, which left...

Adrien smiled sheepishly down at her. “Sorry, I could have timed that better.”

She just stared, because the sun caught his hair like a halo and limned his features in gold and shadow, and she desperately wanted to capture the moment, to store the look he was giving her in the recesses of her soul, because she’s never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

(That was a lie; the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen was her friends and family, alive and well after twenty-four awful hours of believing they were dead, but that wasn’t the kind of beautiful she longed to capture in pencil and paper, and this... this was.)

“Y-yeah,” she said, because she’s long forgotten the entire conversation, if there ever even was one, and agreeing seemed like a good plan. Tea was stinging her nose and her entire face felt warm and she’d just completely humiliated herself in front of her crush, but it was worth it, to see that.

Adrien pulled back and grinned bashfully, rubbing the back of his head in awkward apology.

A pose, an _expression_ she had seen hundreds of times before on another beautiful boy, and Marinette looked away immediately, refusing to see any more similarities.

_As likely to be Chat Noir as she was to be Ladybug, huh..._

* * *

(She feels like she needs an apology from him. For pushing so hard, for not letting it go, for letting her refusal affect their teamwork, she feels like she needs acknowledgement for those things.

But she can see that she has apologies to give too, for pushing him away, for not letting him in, for speaking carelessly and speaking harshly; these are things she needs to atone for as well.)

* * *

“I’m going to get another drink,” said Adrien, getting up and stretching. “Does anyone want anything?”

Marinette refused on principal to watch him stretch, because he did it so much like Chat (one arm behind his head and one eye shut tighter than the other) it was making her go just a little bit crazy.

Instead, she watched the seat of his skinny jeans, because _that_ was a sight worth going crazy over.

“I’m good,” said Nino, snickering. “But Marinette looks kind of thirsty.”

Adrien started to look down at her and Marinette yanked her eyes away from his backside in a hurry. “Do you want water, or something else?”

“W-water’s good!” Marinette squeaked, guilty heart thumping. _Thirsty...?_

He smiled at her in a way that made her glad she was already sitting down and walked into the coffee shop, denim clinging deliciously to his rear.

“ _Nino_ ,” Alya hissed, slapping the boy’s arm as soon as Adrien was out of easy hearing range. Her reproach probably would have worked better if she didn’t look like she was trying not to laugh while she gave it.

“...I cannot _believe_ he didn’t get that!” Nino lamented in an undertone, ignoring the slap. “He was home-schooled for fourteen years with nothing to do _but_ surf the web! How did he _not get that?_ ”

“Get what?” Marinette questioned, focus restored now that Adrien and his skinny jeans were safely out of her line of sight.

Nino and Alya traded wide-eyed looks. 

“Nothing,” said Alya, a little too quickly. “Let’s move on. Have we done page 193 yet?”

Adrien walked back to their table about five minutes later, carrying another caramel latte and a little cup of water. Before he sat down, he glanced passingly at Alya and Nino (both bent over Nino’s textbook), then he leaned over her and set the water in front of her.

Helooked at her, smirked _a_ sly little _knowing_ smirk, and (she could _swear_ the shadows looked like Chat’s mask) he _winked_.

She sank in her seat, flustered and _mortified_. 

He’d caught her. 

And still Marinette wanted to crawl into his lap about as much as she wanted to sink through the prettily-paved flagstones. She stared at the water he’d helpfully delivered to her seat and contemplated pouring it over her head. A nice cold shower to counter the heat of shame (among other things).

 _Thirsty,_ she thought faintly. _Right._

* * *

(Being at odds with him feels like having her wings clipped, like walking a tightrope without a safety net, like swimming in quicksand, and she watches his back, because he hasn’t turned to her with a joke or a line in three weeks and she’s _drowning_. The line of his shoulders is taut, tense, _hurting_ in his leather and _she did that_ and living like this is making her see just how empty her life is without him, just how much she relies on him to get her through her day.

“I’m sorry,” she whisperers into the chasm between them, finally unable to take the silence any longer.

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime. he looks at her, really _looks_ at her, and, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, she’s inhaling, breathing, almost alive once again.

“I think I hurt you, and I’m so, so, so sorry,” she says quietly, words that should have been said weeks ago tumbling out her mouth like a landslide. “I never meant to say what I said, and I’d take it all back if I could. Please... I love you so much, and there’s no one I’d rather do this with. Please, _please_ forgive me.“ Her voice catches on the last words, eyes prickling because she doesn’t know what she’ll do if he doesn’t.

He turns to face her fully, surprised, and her heart balances on a knife’s edge.

He tries to speak once, twice, then comes out with, “Yeah. Yes. I mean...”He drops his eyes and laughs at himself, and she fights back tears of relief.

He sighs and speaks again. “I’m sorry too.”

She blinks.

“You didn’t want... for us to... you didn’t want to for us to reveal our identities to each other, and I should’ve respected that. So, I’m sorry.”

That’s much more than she ever expected from him, though perhaps she should’ve. He’s always pretty careful and responsible when it comes to their relationship. She smiles, sob caught behind her teeth, and stumbles forward.

She crashes into him for a hug, and he catches her, holds her like she’s stumbled and needs righting. She nudges past that defense and slides her arms around his torso, resting her cheek on his shoulder.

She can feel him hesitate, breath caught, but, after a few seconds, he reciprocates, and she remembers why she’s only ever hugged him three times before.

His skin is almost fever-warm where she can feel it; hard planes of muscle under the leather solid against her own; his gentle hands smooth over her back; his scent (leather and sweat and faint cologne and _Chat_ ) pools in her belly and melts down her spine and makes her knees weak with the taste of it on the back of her tongue. 

It’s safe, here in his arms, safe in a way that feels all too much like home, feels dangerously like someplace she never wants to leave, ever. It’s a siren song of every smile he’s ever given her, every fight he’s had her back, every rushed conversation shared weaving through back-alleys and over rooftops, a hundred little things she suddenly realizes she doesn’t know how to live without anymore.

She buries herself in that comfort, then pulls back and smiles up at him, so that she can go back to pretending her traitorous, tell-tale heart doesn’t beat _love you, love you, love you, love you_ over and over and over again for him.

He smiles back, red under the mask. 

They aren’t perfectly synced after that (she won’t tell him why she won’t reveal her identity and he won’t tell her why it matters so much; an impasse), but they’re so much _better_ that she could cry.

She hasn’t lost him yet.)

* * *

“Ah,” said Adrien, leaning over. “You’ve got something...”

Marinette made a questioning noise, turning her head to look at her crush.

He reached out and wiped something off of her cheek with long, cool fingers.

Marinette froze, face hot and stomach tying itself in hundreds of thrilled little knots.

Then he hesitated, met her eye. She had just enough time to wonder at the spark in his glance, and then he and then _licked his finger_ , pink tongue pressed against the digit with mischief lurking around the corners of his mouth in a very dangerously familiar sort of way- 

-and, suddenly, all Marinette could see was _Chat_. 

And, _humiliatingly_ , it only made the heat that had blossomed under her skin burn _hotter_.

He hummed, running his tongue over his bottom lip in a highly suggestive way and giving her a self-satisfied little smirk, apparently oblivious to both Alya and Nino choking on air behind him.

It was at that point that Marinette had to break eye contact, or risk doing something awful, like moan or whimper, or, worse, actually _say Chat’s name_.

 _Which was ridiculous_ , she thought, rubbing her thighs together futilely, face burning brighter than the sun, _because Adrien. couldn’t. be. Chat. Noir_.

* * *

(He couldn’t be Chat Noir because she _knew_ Chat Noir. She _knew him_ , and she was confident she could pick him out of a lineup, Miraculous activated or not.

In her weaker moments, she imagined what Chat might be doing elsewhere in the city, imagined what he might do with his days off.

Imagined a beautiful boy walking in on one of her groups’ study sessions, swaggering up to the counter and flirting hopelessly with the pretty barista, who’d give him the time of day more for his dangerously beautiful smile than his lame lines.

Imagined her lovable dork of a partner playing video games until the sun came up and going to school half-asleep, exhaustion-mussed and satisfied, getting teased by his friends for his state of alertness.

Imagined her diamond in the rough, her street cat with a heart of gold, her champion incognito roaming the streets after dark, or maybe just roaming the library, looking for a fight or simply looking, sating his curiosity however it pleased him.

Adrien couldn’t be Chat Noir because he wasn’t any of those boys, and it put road-tacks under Marinette’s heart to think she might not know her partner even that well.)

* * *

It was just her and Adrien the day the secret came out, and Marinette thanked her lucky stars for that.

It was a stupid, fumbling gaff on her part. Adrien asked her to get a textbook and, in reaching for the nearest bag, she’d picked up and opened his instead of hers.

“Did you bring me cheese?” a tiny, sleepy voice asked her from inside the bag when she opened it. A pair of bright, neon-green eyes blinked open, so luminescent they had to be glowing.

“Plagg!” Adrien yelped.

“Oops,” said the voice. “You’re not Adrien.”

The voice belonged to a little creature about the size and rough shape of Tikki, but colored solid black and had conical ears, like a cat.

A black cat.

 _Le Chat Noir_.

No way she could really deny it now.

“Er,” Adrien said, drawing her attention back to him. His eyes were wide, a comically panicked look on his face. “That-That is... um.”

“A kwami, right?” Marinette interrupted, taking pity on him. How could one even try to explain away the existence of a kwami?

One couldn’t, that’s how.

“Uh,” said Adrien, more baffled than panicked now. “Ye-es. Er. How did you know that?”

Well. The cat was out of the bag now, she guessed.

She zipped Adrien’s bag shut over the face of the little kwami ( _”Hey!”_ ), and pulled the purse containing Tikki into her lap and opened it.

“Hi,” said her kwami, shyly.

“...Hi- _Ladybug?!_ ”

Marinette snapped the purse shut before any of the coffee shop patrons who’d looked over at Adrien’s outburst could see the bright red fairy. Then she waved to Adrien, a painful kind of smile on her mouth. She couldn’t look him in the eye. “Hi, kitty.”

He opened his mouth and shut it again without saying anything once or twice, before coming out with, “Wow.”

She tried to laugh, but her chest was panicking-fight-or-flight-response constricted, and she couldn’t put any breath behind it.

“Wow,” he said again, going slowly from baffled to thoughtful. Then, he brought his fist to his forehead with a gentle _thump_. “I can’t _believe_ I didn’t see it.”

“I can,” Marinette admitted softly. Because, really, who would look at clumsy, shy, emotional Marinette and see the city’s savior?

He looked at her from beneath his fist. “Your eyes,” he said, seemingly out of the blue.

“What?”

“Your eyes,” he repeated. “They don’t change.”

She blinked the eyes in question. “Lots of people have blue eyes, Ch- Adrien.”

“No, I mean... your...” He waved a vague gesture at her, then appeared to give up with a little huff. “They don’t change.”

They sat in silence for a minute, absorbing the revelation.

“Listen,” Adrien ( _Chat_ ) started hesitantly. “I know... I know you didn’t want us to meet out of saving the city...” He took a breath, looking like he was struggling with something. “We don’t... We don’t have to have anything to do with each other in our civilian lives, if you don’t want us to.”

Marinette’s eyes snapped to his face in surprise, shocked by his selfless consideration.

Her heart whispered, _take it, and stay safe_ , and screamed, _**no, don’t let him go**_ in the same moment, and Marinette was caught between for as long as it took her to meet her partner’s eye.

It had hurt him to say that, it was obvious, but he wasn’t taking it back and he’d stand by her word, she knew, and that made her decision faster than anything else could. She didn’t think she was mentally or physically _capable_ of pushing him away more than she already had.

“No,” she said, heart aching and quailing and trying to beat its way out of her mouth. “Stay. It was the finding out part that I was worried about.” 

A little white lie, but she didn’t think he could accept her answer without it.

He slumped in his seat, laughing raggedly in relief, smile tremulous around the edges. ( _You did that_ , read the knife that slid between her ribs.) He offered his hand across the floral-iron table and said, “Friends?”

It was the end of an era and the beginning of another and it felt like the beginning of the end to Marinette, but she smiled anyway and took his hand and whispered, “ _Yes_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (okay but this chapter is basically Adrien discovering he can make Sweet Ingenue Marinette blush and Chat taking it and _running with it_ )
> 
> One last part to go!


	4. Chapter 4 Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't forgotten about this story, i promise!
> 
> so this got seriously long and, for the sake of my sanity, i've decided to split chapter 4 up into three parts. enjoy part one of chapter 4!
> 
> and if you don't know what **boku no pico** is, please **do not look it up!** it's incestuous pedophiliac yaoi porn okay don't put that in your mind or your browser history. it has scarred millions.
> 
> (alternate chapter titles:  
> "In which Mari gets her own back"  
> "Waiter, what is this fluff doing in my angst?"  
> "This was supposed to be 1k or less wha t hap p en e d"  
> "I am in Ladynoir hell. Please send help.")

“Okay, everyone take ten!”

Adrien didn’t even stop to stretch before he was diving for his bag so he could check his phone.

He’d had to take today off school to fill in for an absent model, and it was eating him that he wouldn’t be able to see Marinette today. _Maybe I could convince her to patrol with me tonight…_

(Patrol was never a necessity, and even less often a help in their mission to protect Paris (akuma were usually easier to find when you were around lots of people who would run and scream at the sight of them, or at least had phones with active news feeds reporting on them), but it was a tried and true excuse to spend time together, a code for _‘Wanna run across some rooftops, show off for each other and make the citizens feel a little safer?’_ )

She hadn’t responded to his last text ( _”Just watch it! You’ll love it, I swear :3″_ ), which was to be expected, seeing as their class didn’t get a break for another half hour, but his heart still sank a little at the lack of incoming text notifications.

(They'd texted almost constantly these past three weeks since the reveal of their alter-egos, and it was the most fun Adrien could ever remember having in his _life_.)

He put his phone back in his bag — careful to put it in _its_ pocket, not Plagg’s — and finally took his stretch with a little sigh.

He should probably eat something, he thought absently, holding onto his elbow above his head and twisting. This director was proving to be brutal. This was their first break since the full light of day had hit the set.

He didn’t really feel like eating food, though, not after a morning with nothing in his stomach. He dug around in his bag for something suitably not-food-like-but-nutritious (he was pretty sure Natalie had packed him a kale juice or something — she usually did) and found… a bakery bag?

That was strange.

Never once in his life could he remember Natalie packing anything that wasn’t low-carb, low-fat, cholesterol-free, or all three. Processed sugar hadn’t entered his diet until he was old enough to buy it for himself, and even then it was heavily restricted. He’d had to argue pretty hard even for his study session caramel lattes, because they were frequent (weekly) and contained caffeine and sugar and cream, and he was already getting terrifying amounts of horribly aromatic (and _expensive_ ) cheese (that he didn’t actually eat, but the staff wasn’t supposed to know that).

Which begged the question of how the small, sweet-smelling packet had made it into his things.

Somewhat wary, he peeled back the sticker sealing it shut (black, with an embossed gold letter ‘D’ in elegant script) and peeked into the packet.

Cookies?

He tipped them out onto his hand, and suddenly understood how they came to be in his bag.

Marinette.

Marinette, who’d been waiting for him after school yesterday. Who’d jumped guiltily at his arrival. Who’d given him a quick ‘good luck on your shoot’ and a gentle touch on the wrist that felt like lightning. That Marinette.

They appeared to be some sort of caramel colored sweet wafer cookie. Almond, probably, judging by the nut pieces he could see. Each cookie held a design in darker brown on top. The top cookie was broken, but the stencilled cat motif was still plainly visible. The second was unbroken, little ladybugs and hearts surrounding an elaborate ‘Good Luck’ in the same font as the ‘D’ on the sticker. The third and last had a cat playing with a ladybug, and more little hearts in the margins.

 _Maybe… maybe I could eat_ , he thought, chest tight, heart melting like candle wax, face aching with a helpless smile.

(The cookies turned out to be more _bad luck_ than _good luck_ ; he got in trouble for smiling straight through the shoot, which was supposed to have a more sombre theme than his lovesick grin allowed for.)

* * *

“The third 'Annual Protectors Of Paris' Ball is coming up,” Nino mentioned, sliding a flyer into the center of the table as he retook his seat, peach smoothie in hand.

Oh right. It was.

It was a charity ball that celebrated the first (recorded) battle Ladybug and Chat Noir had fought against an akuma for Paris, and a big deal for everybody who was anybody in the city.

The upcoming date meant that their actual anniversary was also around the corner — _it_ was two weeks before the day the ball was held every year.

Adrien should probably find the last few pieces of his anniversary gift to Ladybug soon.

“Don’t remind me,” Alya moaned, tossing down her pencil and resting her cheek on her fist, pouting.

Adrien smothered his amusement. Alya’s doomed attempts to get into the biggest Ladybug event of the year were a source of entertainment for them all between the announcement and the day of the event.

He shot an automatic glance at Marinette, only to find her scowling at her fingers.

As if sensing his concerned stare, Marinette glanced up and gave him a strained ‘it’s nothing’ sort of smile, eyes pinched at the corners despite her efforts.

Adrien wasn’t particularly convinced.

“You only say that because you haven’t read this yet,” said Nino, smugly sliding the flyer under Alya’s nose.

Alya snatched up the flyer and speed read through it. “What am I seeing?”

Adrien studied Marinette’s profile as she leaned against Alya’s shoulder to look at the flyer. She looked tired, he noted with a funny little ache in his chest. Irritated, maybe. Sleep deprived, definitely, judging by the pallor of her skin and the mug of coffee in her hands.

Nino got up from his chair and wandered amiably over to the girls' side of the table.

“Here,” he said, poking his head over Alya’s other shoulder and pointing out a line on the flyer. “Hosted at the Maison Souquet.”

Alya’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ for a second. Then she shot up out of her seat, grinning wildly. “Mama can get me in!”

Marinette was pushed off Alya’s shoulder, tipping to the side like she didn’t quite have the energy to immediately right herself. Adrien found himself getting more worried. If there was one thing he’d learned since they had started spending so much time together, it was that Marinette always had energy. _Always_.

“Yep,” said Nino, head cocked to smile easily up at Alya, having swayed out of bashing range at her leap before she could jam his jaw shut with her momentum.

“Nino, you’re a genius!” Alya squeaked, grabbing their mutual friend and shaking him in her excitement.

“Nah,” he said good naturedly, allowing himself to be shaken with little more than a wry, tolerant grin. “Just observant, dude.”

“What will I _wear?_ ” said Alya, letting go of Nino to clasp her hands, looking for all the world as though her fairy godmother had just appeared in front of her.

Maybe it had, Adrien thought, dryly amused. Alya had been looking for an awfully long time for a way to get into that ball.

_Wait…_

_‘Wear?’_

With a blinding flash of insight, Adrien realized the source of Marinette’s distress. _She was designing Ladybug’s dress._

Adrien had never thought about it much, because Chat’s eyes and cat ears were too distinctive to substitute with fakes, Plagg refused to change his look at all, and wearing a tux in general would be a really stupid move. His father attended this event, and his father could be counted on to remember every piece of clothing his son had ever owned, even when he tended to forget his actual son. Not dressing up fit with Chat’s careless wild-child image anyway, so he’d tried not to worry about it. The suit was black; it was good enough.

He’d always assumed that Ladybug, having the more cooperative kwami between the two of them, asked Tikki to change her suit around a little to fit in with the overdressed elite they had to mingle with for a few hours every year.

Now he realized that that assumption was kind of ridiculous — Marinette was a designer. Of course she would design her own dresses. She probably sewed them herself, too.

Not only that, but given the guests that would be attending — everyone from his father to the mayor — the pressure would be on her to make something that fit the upscale party, while fitting Ladybug’s image, while still fitting within her budget and sewing abilities… she probably started stressing about it a month in advance.

Adrien felt like a bit of an idiot.

“I can make it,” Marinette offered to Alya.

Adrien shot her an alarmed look. _On top of your own?_ he would have asked, if not for present company.

Alya squealed, all but glomping Marinette. “Thank you, thank you, _thank you!_ ”

“It’s nothing,” Marinette demurred, giggling, face smooshed up against Alya’s collarbone.

They made an incredibly cute picture, Adrien couldn’t help but notice. Though it didn’t lessen his worry for Marinette’s mental state at all.

“So I’m getting us all in, right?” Alya wanted to know, letting go of Marinette with a little bounce.

“ _Yes_ ,” said Nino.

“Er,” said he and Marinette in the same breath. They traded mildly panicked glances under Alya’s startled look.

Marinette went up to bat first.

“C-c’mon Alya,” she said with a wheedling smile, looking more tired than ever. “You know what will happen if I go, right? I’ll trip over a table and land on someone _important_.”

Alya’s surprise melted into suspicion.

Marinette hurried on, “Besides, I’m already going to be designing your dress — I’m not going to have time for another!”

Alya’s stern stance softened with concern. “You do know you don’t have to make my dress, right Marinette?” she asked quietly, brow furrowed. “If it’s going to be too much trouble—”

“No, no!” Marinette rushed to assure her friend. “I’d love to!”

“If you’d rather spend your time on your own dress—” Alya tried again.

“I don’t _want_ to go to the ball,” Marinette insisted. (Adrien could believe that. Ladybug was never truly at ease at high class functions, and didn’t much like attending events held in her honor, and the 'Annual Protectors Of Paris' Ball was both.) “And I’d _love_ to make your dress. Don’t worry about it.”

Alya conceded to that answer and turned to Adrien.

“Père won’t stand for it,” Adrien said quickly. “And he’ll be _there_. No way could I sneak past _him_.”

She tilted her head at him. “Papa Agreste doesn’t want his son preparing for what it will be like to run a company?” she asked shrewdly.

“Not when there'll be alcohol present,” Adrien retorted, happy with the watertight alibi. “And anyway, the company isn’t hereditary.”

Alya huffed and eyed them both suspiciously for a minute, before getting distracted by the reality of a chance at getting in. “Ooh, I wonder who else is going?”

Nino engaged her, leaving Adrien and Marinette to heave twin relieved sighs.

The rest of the study session passed by quickly, although not much studying happened after that; the upcoming ball was all Alya could think about, and she was the driving force behind getting things done at these meetings.

Adrien helped Marinette with the clean up afterwards, cherishing the chance to be semi-alone with her.

He wanted to talk her into taking back the offer to make Alya’s dress, because she was already losing sleep over the one and the ball was only a month away. But he couldn’t really speak against it, as much as he wanted to — it wasn’t his place. If Marinette thought she could handle making two ball dresses at the same time while she was already this stressed, then all he could do was trust that she knew what she was doing and offer his support.

“Listen,” he murmured to her, stopping her by the trash cans before they rejoined Nino and Alya, who were laughing just outside the entrance as they waited for them. “Relax. Breathe. Everything you make is brilliant. Don’t worry about it.”

There was, of course, a chance he was wrong, that the dress wasn’t what she was worrying about, but he didn’t think so. It made too much sense.

“What?” she asked, turning surprised, big blue eyes up to his.

He swallowed at the sudden proximity. The cold fall sunlight caught her irises, pooling in their depths and giving them an unearthly cast of blue fire.

“Y-Your dress,” he croaked, forced to look away for a moment, lest he drown or burn or both. “You’re worried about it, right?”

She nodded in his peripheral sight.

“Don’t.” He met her eye again, the need to reassure her overwhelming his sense of self-preservation. “It’s beautiful already, I’m sure. You’re an amazing designer. Don’t second guess yourself so much.”

He reached out to stroke her cheek, then thought better of it and gave a gentle tug on a lock of her bangs instead. _Smile_ , he silently pleaded, letting the silky strands slide slowly from his fingers. _Smile for me._

And smile she did — a fragile, vulnerable thing that fired a quiver’s worth of magic arrows into the dead center of his heart, cracking it painfully on contact.

Involuntarily, his fingers recaptured the lock of inky hair and tucked it behind her ear, a pathetic attempt to hide the caress they desperately wanted to give. The lock didn’t stay, instead feathering over his knuckles in its break for freedom.

She lurched forward, and suddenly he had an armful of Marinette.

She pressed against him from chest to knee, filling his nose with an intoxicating mingle of sweet perfume and female skin. Warm, soft, feminine curves and baby fat contrasted deliciously with lean, corded muscle under his hands, bringing home the fact that this was _Ladybug_ in his arms, _Ladybug_ thanking him for his reassurance, _Ladybug_ who’d smiled at him like _that_ , and he didn’t… he didn’t know what to do with any of it.

“Thank you,” she whispered, hot into the hollow beneath his ear, triggering a shudder that shot down his spine from where her arms were twined around his neck.

Unable to speak, he squeezed her a little tighter in response, shifting to wrap himself around more of her deceptively delicate-looking form.

He moved to give into his urge to bury his nose in her hair, glancing up at the entrance to the coffee shop as he did so.

Nino and Alya were there, watching the scene with eerily identical ear-to-ear smirks.

Adrien froze.

Their smirks widened exactly the same number of notches in perfect synchronization.

Adrien could feel himself start to blush.

“Adrien?” Marinette breathed, the name falling melodious against his skin.

“Uh,” he responded, distracted by the sensation.

She pulled back (he chased the contact thoughtlessly for a split second before catching himself) and glanced over her shoulder, following his line of sight.

The squeak she let out was much too endearing.

He exhaled a sympathetic laugh and took a reluctant step back to separate them.

She regained something of her composure, re-tucked the same lock of hair he’d tucked behind her ear a minute ago, and gave him a shy half-grin up through her lashes, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed.

He met it with one of his own.

“We’re going to hear about this, aren't we?” he asked ruefully.

“Probably,” she admitted with cheer, half-grin blooming into a full on giggle, lilting and girlish.

 _Worth it_ , he couldn’t help but think, _for that smile_.

* * *

"There! The roof has a trap door.”

Chat bounded across the last two roofs and alighted on top of the bakery, next to the trap door the girl in his arms had pointed out. Kneeling by the entrance so she could reach to open the door, he peered in at a dark, oddly-patterned floor down below.

The two of them had been racing home over the rooftops in the aftermath of an akuma battle when Ladybug's transformation had worn off, forcing him to catch her mid-leap. She’d fussed at him at first, but had eventually agreed to let him carry her the rest of the way ("It’s only a block! I can walk!” “It’s only a _block._ I can carry you. How do you plan to get in without waking your parents, anyway?” “ _Ugh._ ”).

Now they'd reached her home, and he would have to give up the pleasant weight and warmth of her in his arms. A clock tower chimed midnight in the distance across the chilly Parisian skyline, marking the new day as he reluctantly loosened his grip on her legs to let her down.

“Hey, wait,” said Marinette, clutching at his shoulder before he could lower her. “Come inside for a minute.”

“My lady,” he couldn’t help but leer. “I thought you’d never ask.”

It was Ladybug who rolled her eyes at him as she slipped from his arms and through the trap door. “Five minutes. That’s it, kitty.”

He stifled a laugh, following her nearly blind. “I’m wounded. Do you really think so little of me?”

The patterned floor he’d noticed earlier revealed itself to be a loft bed.

_Who puts a trap door over a bed?_

Well, it was pretty convenient, he had to admit.

—for _landing pad_ purposes, obviously. Not—

…Yeah, he was just going to stop there.

“Sorry,” she sing-songed from somewhere below the loft. “Should I give you ten minutes instead?”

He realized that there was light coming from that direction and peeked over the edge of the bed, curious. Despite all the time they’d known each other, this was the first time he had ever been in her room.

His first impression was _pink_.

And cramped. But mostly pink.

 _Wow_ , that was a lot of pink.

Chat wondered why he was surprised. It was a very 'Marinette' room, and the pink only amplified that.

But, _wow_ , that was a _lot of pink_.

“Ten minutes would be an improvement,” he said, latching back onto the train of conversation now that he’d taken in the sheer pinkness of the room. “But still not nearly long enough.”

Marinette giggled from somewhere underneath him ( _no, brain, don’t go there_ ), which had been his intention… mostly.

(It was partly also because he just didn’t know how to _stop_ as Chat. Impulse control was _not_ his transformation’s strong point.)

“Hang on, hang on,” Marinette mumbled to herself. Shuffling things, probably, judging by the noise. “Where did it… go…”

Curious, Chat crawled to the ladder and pulled himself upright so he could swagger down — the steps were placed just far enough apart to allow him to do so.

From the middle of the room, her space looked much larger. He spied a desk and a lounge and a pull-down — projector screen? Calendar? _something_ — hanging by her computer. Other than a few dressers and a table, the rest was open floor space. A nice layout, for not having much room to work with.

There was a great deal of red and black cloth strewn around. Probably the start of the dress. Dresses. Why had she wanted to make Alya’s dress again?

He shook the thought off ( _not his place_ ) and looked at the walls next.

The wall behind her computer was covered in pictures. Magazine clippings, posters, pictures of Alya and Nino and a few of other classmates. But it was the magazine clippings that caught his eye first.

About half of them were from general fashion magazines… and the other half featured _him_ in his various modeling shoots.

He didn’t know he could purr, but there was a rumbling, bubbling _something_ in the back of his throat that wanted out, because Marinette liked looking at him enough to cover a good chunk of her workspace with pictures of him.

(They could just be remnants of her ( _past?_ ) crush, but he tried not to think about said crush much, because it sparked feelings that _hurt_ in their intensity — uncertainty and hope and longing and fear and happiness and _want_.

Oh, _god_ , how he wanted.)

“Ha!” said Marinette, having apparently found what she was looking for. “Here, kitty.”

Chat dragged his eyes away from the last photo, schooling his expression into something he hoped was normal.

(It was a single picture of the two of them as Chat Noir and Ladybug, hung directly to the right of her monitor: a selfie taken on their first anniversary, ridiculous grins smudged with whipped cream and crêpes in their off hands, her arm around his neck and the Parisian sunset painting the skyline behind them. It had been their first ever ‘patrol’ together, and one of the very few times they’d spent time together not fighting for their lives prior to revealing their identities.)

Marinette smiled softly, offering him a bundle of red and black cloth. “Happy anniversary, Chat. Sorry I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

The midnight bells, he realized with a start. They’d marked the sixth of November, their real anniversary.

He accepted the bundle like it was made of gold. In fact, he didn’t think he treated _actual_ gold with this much care.

“I didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” he admitted sheepishly. “Your gift is still at school.”

She smiled a bright, sweet little smile. “Just wanted to be first, kitty.”

He unfolded the bundle.

It was a hoodie, dark red with black spots, very obviously Ladybug-inspired but still masculine in style. The fabric under his fingers was of amazing quality, every seam that he could see pressed flat and guarded against rough edges. He could tell just by looking at it that it would fit well — it felt tailored, with the way the lines of it shifted in his hands.

He looked at Marinette, who smiled nervously, glancing between him and her gift and biting her lip.

Why? She had to know by now that she could get him the most random, unhelpful, trashiest piece of junk ever and he’d still adore it because _she’d given it to him_. She had actually _made_ this; it was automatically one of the best gifts he’d ever received.

He shifted the hoodie so he could pull down the zipper (cool metal of a high quality make that didn't catch his fingers when he stroked down the line of teeth, a guard flap behind to protect his skin from it during the colder months), then shrugged it on.

He was wrong. It didn’t fit well.

It fit like a _dream_.

He had been modeling since he was eleven years old and not once had he ever worn something that fit like _this_.

He carefully tugged the zipper up, still marveling at the fit, the quality, the attention to detail.

It glided easily, locking in place the moment he smoothed the tab down.

“This…” he started and trailed off. “This is amazing.”

Marinette beamed at him for a second, then stepped up with a critical eye for her work. She reached out and tweaked the fabric, settling it around his form with careful, brisk professionalism, then stepped back to eye it once more.

He waited for her sharp nod of approval before saying, “Really… this… this is…” He shook his head. “ _Thank you_.”

She had to have heard the catch in his voice. This was easily the most precious gift he’d _ever_ received. He felt like his chest was going to burst.

“Of course,” she said, with a little grin and toss of her chin. “Only the best for my kitty.”

He laughed breathlessly, stuffing his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t reach for her. His palms tingled in protest, turning his attention to the slight flush in her cheeks and the graceful lines of her throat.

His fingertips brushed against something on the inside of his pocket, an odd rough pattern lining the inner curve. He blinked and looked down (as though it would help — it was in the _lining_ , doofus), running his fingers over the patch more carefully.

“Oh!” said Marinette, noticing his confusion and scratching the back of her neck, no longer smug. “That’s my signature. I’m sorry, I couldn’t find any other good place to put it — everywhere else was too obvious or would end up scratching you.”

 _Marinette_ , read the embroidery. He ran his fingertip back and forth over the little patch, again and again. _Marinette, Marinette, Marinette_.

“I love it. _Thank you_.”

She dropped her hand. “Like I said, only the best for my kitty.” Then she glanced at the clock. “But we do have school tomorrow, so...”

“Yeah,” he agreed, reluctantly pulling his hands from his newfound pockets ( _Marinette_ ) and unzipping his gift.

He folded it carefully and cradled it as he climbed back up the stairs to her bed and the trap door above.

A thought occurred to him. “Hey... how did you get my measurements?”

A hollow metal noise sounded behind him, like she’d slipped on a step.

He looked back in concern.

She’d caught herself on the railings and was staring down at the step, surprised.

Chat breathed a sigh of relief.

“...Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said, a little shaky from the fall.

Well, _that_ was an evasive answer if he’d ever heard one.

“How mysterious,” he drawled, grinning, because he _learned_ from his mistakes and he knew she didn’t like to be pushed. “You realize this means I'll just _imagine_ the answer to that, right?”

She glared, but her blush hadn’t faded in the least, he noted with glee. “Just— _go_.”

“Yes ma’am,” he quipped, climbing onto her bed and reaching for the lip of the door, laying his precious gift on his shoulder.

“And Adrien!”

He didn’t let go of the lip, just glanced down. “Hm?”

Marinette's grin was full of mischief, face bathed in midnight moonlight, and Chat's stomach flipped. “Wear it to school tomorrow!”

“Roger that,” he said, once he remembered how to speak, and then he was gone.

* * *

Adrien pushed his dinner around on his plate, appetite at zero and thoughts a million miles away — or rather, five miles away, which was the distance between him and the Dupain-Cheng bakery.

The reason Marinette had asked him to wear the hoodie had become apparent the moment he walked into school: she had one to match.

A zip-up Chat Noir-themed hoodie, complete with leather ears on the hood.

He'd spent the entirety of his day at school hating the fact that he had to sit in front of her, rather than behind, and was therefore deprived of drinking in the sight of _Marinette_ wearing _black_ with _cat ears_.

That kind of sight should be made illegal, he thought, despondent, as he continued to play with his food. The kind of illegal that led to people downloading it off the internet to feed their hungry hearts; the kind that led to drug addicts being thrown in jail.

It was a thoroughly distracted Adrien who’d wandered through his day, bumping into things and trying very hard not to hug Marinette every time she spoke to him. Overenthusiastic displays of unsolicited public affection were frowned upon in polite society, he had been told.

(Natalie had taken him aside the night before his first day of public school and given him a long, embarrassing, very _informative_ list of things he wasn’t supposed to do in polite society. ‘Overly enthusiastic displays of unprompted public affection’ was the one item he _hadn’t_ thought he’d have trouble with, then.

Oh, how times had changed.)

He could make a case for the ‘unsolicited’ bit, but the rest...

He exhaled on a dreamy sigh and set his fork down, happy bubbles fizzing up from the pit of his stomach and filling every part of him, leaving no room for things as arbitrary as dinner.

The sound of footsteps on the tile of the hall next door tugged him out of his daze.

Natalie entered first, reading off her tablet in her usual quiet tones, which meant that the person following her was...

Adrien jumped to attention, snapping upright sharp and model-straight. “Père,” he greeted, nodding his respect.

“Adrien,” his father returned, dismissing him with a flick of his eyes and passing over Natalie without even that much.

Adrien let out a little breath, clasped his hands behind his back, and settled in to wait until his father finished his business and left.

“Sir, this shooting in Germany needs your attention immediately. Do you want me to reschedule your seven o’clock fitting?”

“What is the nature of this emergency?”

Adrien listened to the ensuing tale of debauchery and scandal with mild amusement. He remembered that model; the incident seemed entirely within her scope. It was surprising the company had kept her, in his opinion, given that the last time she’d nearly caused an international incident, but he guessed she was a) not publicly addicted to anything, and b) had a nice figure, and having both at once put her head-and-shoulders above the rest.

Natalie and his father walked as they talked, passing down the long dining table.

His father was seven feet from the door when he stopped. He turned slowly in Adrien's direction, and walked towards him.

Adrien blinked, happy fizz giving way to cold fear.

"Père...?"

Had he done something to displease his father? Disappoint him? Adrien wracked his brain for a reason his father might be paying him heed.

His father reached out, and Adrien had to suppress a flinch. His father had never raised a hand against him before, but in absence of any positive reason for his proximity, the worst scenario was all that came to mind.

Gabriel took no heed of the tiny movement, instead plucking at the hood of Marinette's gift.

_Huh?_

He watched, perfectly still, as his father twisted the material in his fingers, examining the black-on-black ladybugs embroidered into the dark base of the hood with cold, dispassionate eyes. "Where did you get this?"

Adrien jumped, stammering his reply.

"My..." — _girlfriend?_ She wasn't. ( _Yet_ , he hoped, wished, _prayed_ —) _My partner?_ He couldn't say that to his father. _My friend?_ He couldn't say that, either, not after how long it had taken his father to accept Nino. _My Marinette?_ See item one. "My... classmate made it for me."

"Classmate?"

"Marinette Dupain-Cheng," Adrien supplied on automatic. "She won a few of your design contests." _All of them, actually_.

"I see."

His father plucked at the fabric of the sleeve, using the exact amount of pressure needed to move a mannequin's arm, and Adrien gave over his limb like it belonged to someone else.

"She does good work," his father noted in a strange tone of voice, turning the sleeve this way and that.

"She does," Adrien echoed, blank.

His father met his eye, irises like chips of ice, blue like antifreeze, and Adrien's breath caught, a hot ball of panic burning in his stomach.

"Tell her that," his father said.

Adrien dimly realized the that strange tone of voice had been _approval_.

He let go of Adrien's sleeve and hesitated, hand hovering awkwardly between them for a moment, before giving Adrien a single, perfunctory pat on the shoulder, and walking past.

Natalie fluttered after him, after giving Adrien a look that was about as baffled as the teen felt.

The front doors boomed shut behind the two, the roar echoing through the empty hallways of his chilly home and leaving Adrien with the funny realization that he couldn't remember the last time his father had touched him voluntarily.

* * *

He didn't realize his hands were shaking until he'd fumbled the doorknob to his room three times in a row.

He got it on his fourth attempt and shut it quietly behind him, not wanting to hear the boom echo around his empty home again. He slumped against the door the moment it shut and slid down, incomprehensibly overwrought.

"Time for some cheese?" Plagg wanted to know, zipping up to hover at Adrien's eye-level.

Adrien didn't respond, just scrubbed his hands over his eyes. The hoodie, which had felt so utterly wonderful just minutes ago, chafed under his skin everywhere it touched.

Plagg watched him for a few seconds, then zipped off again.

Adrien released a breath, slumping where he sat.

His father smelled like nothing.

It was, perhaps, an odd thing to notice _now_ , but he did.

He held the scents of aftershave and cologne, of course; the nostalgic smells Adrien could remember from his early childhood. And more faintly of dry cleaning chemicals, of hair and nail products, even of what may have been food, but under that...

Under that, he smelled like nothing.

Plagg zoomed back, holding something in his forepaws which he tossed at Adrien's stomach with surprising accuracy.

"Your girlfriend texted," the kwami said, almost _kind_.

His girlfriend.

Marinette.

 _'Tell her that,'_ his father had said.

Adrien set his phone to the side, mouth tightening over the taste of soured sugar on the back of his tongue. "Not in the mood."

Plagg muttered something that sounded a lot like 'never thought I'd see the day,' but fell silent after that.

Adrien welcomed the silence, scrubbing his scalp and trying not to think about his father's utter lack of aromatic fingerprint or the fact that Marinette had done with a single well-made garment what he had been trying to do (what felt like) his entire life.

He knew that she was _good_ — Paris' own Lady Magic and Lady Luck, winner of every fashion contest she entered, sweet and kind and skilled and inspired and original and... he could go on for days.

But did she have to be _that_ good?

"She said something about something called Boku no Pico? Wanting to watch it?" Plagg said, scratching an ear.

Adrien had never unlocked his phone so fast.

**Whatever you do do not watch boku no pico**

**DO NOT**

_What?_

**BOKU NO PICO**

**DO NOT WATCH**

_Okay?_

_Where did that come from?_

**You weren't wanting to watch it?**

_No_

**...**

**Thank kami**

_You weeb_

_What's so bad about boku no pico?_

**It has scarred generations**

_And?_

**What do you mean and**

_You don't just end the story at "it has scarred generations" adri_

**What do you want me to say?**

_HOW it scarred generations maybe? :P_

**Princess that is a very dark road that we don't touch**

**We ignore it in hopes that it will go away one day**

_Oooh dramatic~_

Adrien found himself snorting, bitter bile at the back of his throat receding and the fabric of the hoodie gentled once again.

**Don't mock boku no pico princess**

**It's not something to joke about**

_And here you are, refusing to explain why_

_I guess I'll just have to watch it to find out_

**NO**

_:D_

**Don't**

**It's pedo yaoi okay don't go down that road**

_Pedo yaoi?_

**Pedo yaoi**

**Look just watch kill la kill or flcl or something and save your sanity**

_Isn't flcl the really crazy one you were talking about before_

**Exactly**

_Okay, no boku no pico_

_Got it_

_...how do YOU know about it?_

**Uh**

**Anyway, if you weren't texting about boku no pico, what were you texting about?**

_A~dri~en~_

_You realize this means I'll just imagine the answer, right~?_

A laugh startled out of him at the echo of last night. His heart gave a faint, quick flutter before he realized just what sort of things she might wind up imagining — and none of them were good. His fledgling grin dropped fast.

**...the internet okay**

**Those were dark times**

_Poor baby XD_

**Yes yes I was an innocent child forever scarred**

**Thankfully you won't go down that road**

**But what was it you wanted?**

_Can you give me a second opinion on these shirts?_

Curious, Adrien scrolled up past his panicked attempts to save Marinette from the horrors of Boku no Pico, remembering the "You have 3 new texts from My Princess♥" notification that he'd caught a brief glimpse of.

_Adri_

_Alya wants to go to the movies_

_Can you tell me which of these shirts go with the pants better?_

The timestamp was nineteen minutes ago. His Boku no Pico panic had taken about twelve of those minutes. _Good timing_.

His phone buzzed.

He scrolled back down to find a photo.

[IMAGE]

_Shirt #1_

He didn't actually see the shirt at first. Her adorable smile and adorable flush and _loose, curled hair_ took precedence.

Loose.

Curled.

Hair.

 _Fuck_.

He had a reply of ' **you look absolutely purrfect, my lady** ' half typed out before he realized that she wanted an opinion on her _shirt_ , not on her smile or her hair (her _hair_ ) or her face.

Then he finished typing the message out and sent it, because leaving those things unremarked upon would have been a crime.

_Hehe thank you <3_

_But look at the other one first_

He had yet to look at the first shirt, so he did that while he waited for the second.

It was a white button-down over a black camisole with a lace neck, buttoned below her breasts and rolled up to the elbows. The lower hem was cut into tails in the front; the back as well, judging by what he could see of it. The tails had cutwork embroidery in a pattern too intricate to make out in the low-resolution picture, but he knew Marinette, and he could make an educated guess as to what it looked like anyway.

The overall effect of the look, combined with her jewelry and hairstyle, was...

Cool.

Mature.

Confident.

' _She does good work_ ,' his father had said.

The pleasant tightness gathering in his gut dispersed on a sigh, and he exited out of his photoviewer.

**Speaking of**

**My father noticed your gift**

**He said to tell you it was good work**

He slumped a little further against the door and flipped his phone over so he wouldn't have to look at those three little texts.

He waited until his phone had buzzed a few times before checking it again.

[IMAGE]

_Shirt #2_

_Wait what_

_?_

_Really?_

_Gabriel Agreste said my work was good?_

_Really?_

Adrien swallowed. Plastered a smile on his face, even though she couldn't see it. Answered:

**Really**

**I was surprised too**

**I wasn't expecting him to be home**

—and waited for the outburst.

_Oh gosh_

_AaaaaaAAAAAAAH_

_MR AGRESTE SAID MY HOODIE WAS GOOD!!!_

_!!!!!!!_

_MINE_

_!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

Adrien's smile felt a little less forced as he watched the explosion of ecstatic texts across his screen. At least one of them was happy.

**You have won every design contest he's hosted at our school**

**He likes your style**

_EeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE_

He scrolled back up to 'Shirt #2' and opened the attached picture, ignoring the rapid-fire texts from Marinette's end. (They were mostly variations of 'oh gosh,' 'oh my god,' and 'oh wow,' with a few typed screams for good measure.)

The picture loaded, and Adrien found himself swallowing again.

The second picture had her posing, hip cocked and pressing a little kiss to her fingertip with a wink and a smirk.

The shirt itself... _'flirty'_ was the word that came to mind. Soft, flattering, wine-red lines of what looked like silk cradled her curves, clung to her hips. The sash around the empire waistline was Ladybug-spotted, tied in a generous bow off to the side. The neckline dipped low on her chest, just enough to hint teasingly at the existence of cleavage.

Over it she had slung a loose-knitted, long-sleeved, cream-colored shrug that ended just above the bottom of her ribcage. The garment was too loose-knit to provide any actual protection from the cold, and was probably there to balance out a lack of sleeves on the blouse under it.

He bit the corner of his nail.

She looked _inviting_ in a way that he was forced to realize he didn't like. At all. Not when she was going to be spending all night out and about with her very platonic, very _female_ best friend.

The frantic buzzing of his text notifications had tapered off, and he went back to check on the conversation.

Fourteen new texts, and the last one was:

_Adri?_

**Sorry**

**I was looking at your second choice**

**You're a brilliant designer, you know that?**

_Ehehehe :D <3_

_So_

_Which do you like better?_

Possibly the worst thing about this situation was that he couldn't, in good conscience, tell her that her first choice went better with her pale blue capris. It _didn't_ , and he hated the six-year modeling career that had taught him that.

**Trick question princess**

**You're in both of them ;3**

_Adrieeeeen_

**What?**

_Give me your Expert Model Opinions_

His ' _expert model_ opinions' said that her second choice was visually balanced and very appealing.

His ' _boy head-over-heels for someone who didn't call herself his_ opinions' said that he didn't want her wearing that for anyone but him.

**It depends**

_> :(_

**On whether you'd rather look like a princess or a queen**

He couldn't tell her that he'd rather she went with the first choice. _It wasn't his place_.

(He probably wouldn't really want to say it if it _was_ — if she _had_ been his, he wouldn't be worrying over what _other_ propositions she might accept.

Right now, she was free as a bird and he _hated it_.)

_So you're saying I should go with the red one?_

That wasn't what he was saying at all.

**I**

**I guess**

_???_

_Adrien?_

He typed ' **No** ' and then stopped.

Started, ' **Actually the first** '—

Stopped.

Deleted the message.

' **It looks great!** '

Backspace.

' **It looks** '

He took a deep breath. Hit send.

**It looks like something you'd wear on a date**

_Oh_

Her choice, he reminded himself. He had no right to be upset over admirers she might not even _get_ -

Who was he kidding. Looking like that? She was going to need a stick to beat them all off.

He buried his face in his hands and waited for a response.

It was a few minutes before he got one.

_The first one doesn't look bad, right?_

_I mean_

_I wouldn't want anyone to think I'm on a date with Alya or anything_

It was a flimsy excuse — it wasn't as if she _really_ cared who thought she was on a date with her best friend — and it made his heart skip wildly, his tenuous hopes only growing stronger.

**The first one looks amazing**

**You look good in everything**

**But that especially**

**;3c**

[IMAGE]

_Guess I'll just have to save this one for a hot date then, huh? ;)_

He opened the image and choked on his tongue.

She was sitting on her lounge, legs folded under her and fingertips touching the coy little smile aimed up at the camera, floral nail art and big blue eyes on display. She'd let the shrug slide down her arms in a way that bared her shoulders and pinned the knit just below her breasts, and that, combined with the angle of the camera, gave him a view _straight down her silk blouse_.

Had she... _meant_ to do that?

He had to reread her text three times before he could summon a response, and even then his numb fingers fumbled the keys.

**Guess you will :3**

_;)_

_Thanks for your help!_

_Alya's gonna be here in ten minutes so I gotta go_

_Talk to you later!_

**Later ;3**

Guiltily, he reopened the last picture, then shifted uncomfortably in his seat and closed it again, face hot.

He staggered upright on weak knees and decided to get ready for bed early, because hell knew he wouldn't be getting any homework done tonight.

_Guess I'll just have to save this one for a hot date then, huh? ;)_

...If he was completely honest with himself, he probably wouldn't be getting much _sleep_ either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> adrien's name for mari, 'my princess,' was actually supposed to have a heart with an arrow through it at the end, instead of a plain one, but ao3 was dumb and refused. please imagine a little arrow going through that ascii heart. <3


	5. Chapter 4 Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is this? an update?
> 
> amazing
> 
> DISCLAIMER: i started and wrote most of this fic around the 7th/8th episode of the korean dub (the first dub to air) so there are actually a fair few characterizations i no longer agree with after having the full first season, but i'm keeping them for internal consistency. sorry if any of it bothers you! 
> 
> (or maybe it just bothers me idk)

How much sleep he got turned out to be negligible in the long run: he really couldn't be expected to focus anyway, because Marinette wore the Chat Noir hoodie to school the next day too.

And the next.

And the next.

In fact, she wore it every day throughout the next week.

Adrien got a crash course in 'how to pretend you were paying attention when your crush is wearing a sweater with your signature all over it.'

He failed it _miserably._

He was in danger of failing his next history test, too, but that was ( _allegedly_ ) what the study sessions were for.

(Study sessions were getting steadily less productive as the weeks went on while he, the resident physics expert, got more and more distracted by Marinette and her... Marinette-ness, and Alya, the resident historian, could talk of nothing but the upcoming ball.

Nino and Marinette weren't particularly studious in the first place, and more often than not spent their time together shooting jokes and light jibes at one another.

It made for a wonderful atmosphere, and the sessions were the highlight of Adrien's week, but helping him with his grades they were _not_.)

Class was better, though only slightly - instead of thinking of followups to Nino's jokes and getting sidetracked by the light in Marinette's eyes, he spent the duration of it wishing he could trade seats with her so he could stare at the back of that hood all day.

He ended up eavesdropping a lot.

He might not have learned a whole lot about calculus, but he did learn about the bakery's customers, what designers Marinette was interested in at the moment, what plans she and Alya had for hanging out over the weekend, a myriad of little things he carefully filed away in his ever-growing mental 'Ladybug' folder.

That folder had rested stagnant for far too long. For all that he could recall any number of her bright grins and off-handed jokes, actual information about her life had been scarce up until very recently. For how often they worked together, his information on her had been painstakingly pieced together from from her reactions to things, her lines, and her jokes.

Until now.

Now his folder wasn't limited to things like 'likes video games' and 'dislikes gifts of live rats' (...certain impulses and cat instincts had been far harder to control before he'd been used to them); now he knew things like what she liked in her tea (one sugar, and one sugar only) and that you should never leave her alone with a cell phone. Ever. (He wondered if that was an instinct _she_ struggled with, at times.)

It had things like how much sun it took to make her freckle (a few hours and her forearms would start to show a smattering of golden spots), where she liked to go to lunch when she had the funds (she was fond of Japanese food, surprisingly; she told him it was because it tended to not be overly sweet), and her reaction to horror movies (she could take the gore but had crawled into his lap and hid in response to the jump-scares and the tension).

(She'd done that last one in the hoodie, too. Adrien wasn't all that fond of horror movies himself but hell if he could be bothered with Marinette's chilly nose nudging the hollow of his throat and two adorable cat ears concealing the killer.)

He knew now that if you startled her out of costume, she would, quite literally, jump a foot into the air (and probably a few to the side, too), arms pinwheeling frantically as she over-balanced, smashed into the nearest immovable object, danced in place, performed acrobatic feats that were out of her reach otherwise, and/or played hot potato with whatever she was holding.

Ladybug was the picture of grace, competence, and self-assured potency.

Marinette had been found stuck in Hotel Bourgeois's dumb waiter, on occasion.

Marinette — no, _Ladybug_ — stumbled and flailed and tripped her way through life, and Adrien couldn't have been more _charmed_. To think his Lady was this clumsy out of the suit was about as adorable as it was hilarious, and Adrien was starting to think he was in major trouble.

Because as much as he'd adored Ladybug before, there'd always been a certain amount of aloofness, of confident independence — to have that distance stripped away, to have it revealed that she wasn't really some other-worldly being, made her so close, so _touchable_ it took his breath away.

He could touch her now. Text her. Ask her if she wanted to see a movie over the weekend and have her _agree_.

It was humbling and wonderful and _terrifying_ , all the things he could envision doing with Ladybug now.

Pacing outside his father's study waiting for Marinette and said father to finish whatever they were talking about wasn't one of those things he'd envisioned, but it was still another little proof that she was a part of his life now, not a transient, ephemeral fever dream.

Soundly re-proving that she wasn't some figment of his imagination, the Lady burst out of his father's study, wild-eyed behind a forced, polite smile, letting the door shut itself with a solid-sounding thunk behind her.

"A week," she gasped, staggering up to Adrien and clutching his forearms, grip harsh with a terrifying kind of frenzied energy.

Just what had happened in there?

"A what?" said Adrien intelligently, steadying her as best he could and trying not to get sucked into her gaze, because now was _so_ not the time.

He knew his father could be a bit much, at times, but not outright _traumatizing_.

Usually.

As far as he knew.

"A week," Marinette repeated, sounding like she was trying to believe it herself. "A week, a week, a week... I have a week to design a lineup."

"...A _what?_ "

"A lineup," she said, letting him go and straightening out her clothing with shaking hands. "For the Christmas showing. One week."

Her hands froze.

"One week," she breathed, corner of her mouth hooked up awkwardly in the most joyous form of panic Adrien had ever seen. "I only have a week."

And with that, she broke every Agreste household rule and charged down the hall at top speed, formal jacket flapping in the breeze and flats squeaking on the tile.

Adrien watched her go, then slowly turned on his heel and opened his mouth to ask the door _what the ever-loving **fuck?**_ before thinking better of it and going to find Natalie.

Maybe she'd have a clue what that was all about.

* * *

She did.

According to Natalie, his father had experienced a work emergency and had decided to dump the least-important lineup of the Christmas showing, a task which would have been a lot for a single, more experienced designer with more time, on one single _busy_ teenage girl, instead of cancelling that particular section like any normal, _sensible_ fashion icon.

Which... well.

His father had a propensity for disappearing for long hours and mumbling to himself while standing in dark rooms alone, so perhaps 'sensible' was not the best descriptor here.

(Adrien had learned to tolerate his father's growing oddities in the years since his mother had vanished, but even for his slacking grip on his sanity, this seemed a bit out there.)

In short, Adrien could entirely understand why he hadn't seen or heard from Marinette in two days.

 _Understanding,_ however, did _not_ equate to _not worrying._

Especially since Alya hadn't heard from her either.

(Alya, upon hearing the news, had winced and laughed and told him not to worry — Marinette had probably just buried herself under her rejected designs.

Alya didn't seem to understand that this was precisely what Adrien was worried about.)

* * *

Walking into the bakery at around lunchtime, her mother confirmed his suspicions when she greeted him with a wry smile and a, "See if you can't get her out of the house, Adrien. Goodness knows she needs it," as she assisted a customer with their order.

"My father-" Adrien started, pausing in the doorway, unsure if that sentence was going to end in an apology or a defense.

"I know," Sabine said with a peaceable, understanding smile, not looking at him as she deftly arranged a customer's croissants in a take-home box.

Adrien had the mad urge to ask her what he had been going to say, because she seemed to know far better than he did.

He didn't, but instead worked his way over to the working side of the counter and asked, "Is she in her room?"

"Hasn't come out since she got home on Monday," Sabine said, snapping the box shut and wrapping it in black ribbon in neat, economical movements. She slid the package to the end of the counter with a flick of the wrist and twisted sideways to pick up a pair of tongs. "Speaking of, would you take these up to her? I don't think she's eaten today."

Adrien blinked as the treats piled themselves up like _magic_ , and then Sabine handed him the whole platter and shooed him into their living area with the same unfalteringly mild smile.

Adrien shooed.

* * *

At Marinette's door, he held the platter in one hand and rapped softly in the wood with the other.

No answer.

He waited a few seconds before rapping again and calling under his breath, "Marinette?"

Still no answer.

Had she left?

He pushed open the door, half-expecting a shriek or a shoe thrown at his head, and got nothing.

Warily, he poked his head through the opening, and the reason became apparent.

Marinette was asleep.

Adrien's mouth twitched into a smile as he pushed the door open and climbed into the room. He picked his way through the dense litter of crumpled drawings (Alya had been on the money, it seemed) over to where Marinette was dozing, cheek resting on yet another design.

She looked peaceful, despite the dark smudges below her eyes. Her mouth hung open, tiny line of dried saliva trailing from the corner of her lips to the desk. Her hair was tangled into stringy locks, wild bedhead doubtlessly exacerbated by her frantic scalp-scrubbing as she tried to brainstorm far too many ideas in far too little time. Her hand rested palm up by her cheek, long, tapered fingers curled in a way that struck him, abruptly, as vulnerable, open.

Adrien's chest contracted viciously, throat gone very, very tight.

He had to look away then, had to skitter away from the sheer force of that emotion, unsettled on a level just a little too deep, a little too personal.

His eyes fell on the neat pyramid of his gift, multicolored spools of professional-grade thread lifted sneakily off (that is, asked politely of) the designers in his father's main workshop. They occupied the only clear space on the desk, the crumpled wads of designs forming an odd semicircle around the thread structure.

Adrien widened the semicircle to make room for the platter Sabine had sent him up with, carefully shuffling rejected designs to the side with a good deal more thought than their creator seemed to have graced them with.

The clink of the ceramic must have disturbed Marinette, because she stirred not a few seconds later.

"Mmn," mumbled the sleeping Marinette, and Adrien looked over just in time to see her blink open sleep-fogged blue eyes.

Adrien's throat snapped shut, heart swelling too big and warm and tight for his chest, slamming against his ribcage like a sledgehammer.

He couldn't define precisely why watching her wake was so huge, except that it just _was_. She was open and soft and defenseless like this, with mussed hair and dazed eyes and—

It was a state of vulnerability she experienced every day, one that he had never witnessed before, one that he thought... maybe...

"Adri-ien?" she whispered foggily, and the little crack in her missing voice threatened to be his undoing.

"G'morning, Princess," he whispered back, face aching in a way that told him he was smiling helplessly, hopelessly.

She blinked up at him for a few moments, confused wrinkle on her brow and the remnants of her in-progress design marking her cheek.

His fingertips tingled with the urge to rub the design away, but found he didn't quite dare, and stilled his hand before he could.

Marinette's eyes went wide as soon as they focused on him.

"A-A-A-Adrien?!"

She promptly shot up off her seat and tumbled backwards, arms flailing wildly, and hit the ground with a painful-sounding _thump_.

He moved without thinking, making an awkward attempt to both catch her and help her and ending up simply staring at the distance between his outstretched hand and the girl on the floor.

Marinette also stared at the outstretched hand, turning an absolutely adorable shade of pink in the process. Her hands flew up to her hair, running her fingers through it and patting it down in what he abruptly realized was an attempt to calm the bedhead.

"A-Adrien," she squeaked. "Wh-wh-what are you doing here?"

_Cute._

"I came to see how you were doing," he admitted.

He _technically_ had an excuse about making sure she didn't miss the press conference for Ladybug and Chat Noir that took place this afternoon, but it had long gone flying out the window, entirely forgotten.

"O-oh," she said, voice coming down from it's double-octave jump. She accepted his hand. "I'm okay."

He gave her a dubious look, then pointedly glanced at the whirlwind of crumpled, rejected designs littering her floor.

She puffed her cheeks and glared as she slid back into her seat. " _Really_."

He didn't dignify that with an answer. Instead he said, "I'm... really sorry for my father."

Because he could try to defend his father's... eccentricities to her mother, but Marinette was the one getting the brunt of the responsibility here, and she deserved an apology for the sheer amount of stress that knowing his father could induce.

"It's... a great honor," she said, a little wry.

"It's a challenge," he corrected her dryly, looking away at the half-expected pang of jealousy. "One of those one of those old kings would give. 'Complete this impossible task and I'll let you marry my daughter.'"

 _That_ got a giggle out of her, even as his heart stuttered at the unintentional implication that she'd been asking for his hand in marriage.

If she _had_ asked that, he had no doubt his father would immediately lock him up in some tall tower or faraway dungeon, never to see the light of day again. His father, though odd, was overprotective at the best of times, and at the worst... well.

(There was a whisper of resentment in his heart — _if you just gave me a chance, maybe I could give you something to be proud of_ — that grew with every new restriction, bitter like bile on the back of his tongue and dark in the pit of his heart.)

(But no, delicate Adrien, _helpless_ Adrien needed to be protected far more than he needed to be relied on.)

"It's kind of funny you're more of a knight than a princess, then, isn't it?"

Adrien jolted out of his reverie to the sound of Marinette's gentle murmur. "What?"

"A brave hero in kitty ears," she mumbled sleepily, _affectionately_. She smiled faintly, almost knowingly up at him from where she'd pillowed her head on her desk again. "My—" She swallowed a yawn. " _—My_ knight in shining armor."

He stared at her, reeling and flushing and flustered and absurdly, _absurdly_ pleased.

She let the moment linger, same soft, _devastating_ smile playing around her lips while he stood and _stared_ , before looking up at her clock with a frown. "What's today?"

"The 13th, why?" he answered, shaking off his daze with difficulty.

Marinette blanched. "The press conference!"

"Oh, right," he said, original reasons for his visit coming back to him as Marinette stumbled out of her seat in a hurry. "The press conference."

He watched in amusement (and affection) as Marinette flailed wildly in the direction of her dresser, stumbling so hard she nearly cartwheeled before she caught herself, and started digging through her wardrobe like a madwoman.

She found what she was looking for, to judge by the grateful, too-wide smile she gave the garments she resurfaced with, and made a mad dash for her hatch door.

"Ah," he called out. "You've got something..."

He tapped his cheek with two fingers when she turned to look at him, because he was pretty sure she would either not notice or fail to remember to clean it off if he didn't say anything.

She raised her hand to the spot he'd indicated and scrubbed her cheek intensely for a moment, leaving it bright red and smudged even worse. She then looked at her fingers and scowled, before giving him a brief thank-you wave and disappearing down the hatch.

He watched the door swing shut, then heard a cacophonous crash. He winced, calling out, "Are you-"

"I'm okay!" Marinette muffled voice cut him off. It was followed by a smaller series of crashes and a few squeaks and, finally, by the snap of what he could only assume was her bathroom door.

He snorted, feeling unaccountably _full_ for how untouched the plate of pastries next to him was.

_That's my Lady Luck, all right._

* * *

Pastries were eaten, cheeks were cleaned, heroes were transformed, and they were all set for the conference... except for one small problem.

"I think we're in the wrong place."

Chat took stock of the empty schoolyard playground, which didn't look like much of a place for a press conference to him. "Astute as always, my lady."

"Did we get the street name wrong?" Ladybug wondered, frowning at the locator displayed on her yo-yo's screen.

Chat leaned over her shoulder to see where the locator placed them, and inhaled a lungful of her scent. _Intoxicating._ He swallowed discreetly and tried to ignore the rampant butterflies in his stomach as he looked at the map.

Frowning, he studied the way the streets connected. There was a likely looking place for a convention center that might have been where they had been directed by the head of the press conference near the edge of the screen. He was pretty sure he'd seen that area on his car's GPS when going to one of his father's press releases.

"Hey," he murmured, pointing it out.

Ladybug jumped, snapping to face him.

"Do you think we were supposed to be... here...?" he trailed off, noticing just how close her flinch had put their faces. Her nose brushed his cheek at the slightest movement of his head.

Oh.

She was _so close_.

Blue, blue, blue... She was so close Chat could only drown in _blue_. She was so close he could feel her body heat like a hearth fire, could hear the way her breath caught, could smell the sleep and soap that lingered on her skin.

She was so close he could kiss her with just a little tilt of his chin, could press his lips against her cheek, against her nose, against _her_ lips, and with the way she was looking at him, he thought she just might let him.

It was all just _too much_ , after this morning.

He unconsciously licked his lips, heart thumping louder with every pulse, drawing into her like he was magnetized, because he couldn't _not_ kiss her, not after this morning, not with that look she was giving him.

_Brrrrring! Brrrrring!_

He squawked, jumping back, arms pinwheeling frantically for balance as he skittered over the lawn in his surprise.

She screeched and also jumped back, though she fell into a martial arts pose he was pretty sure he'd seen in a movie instead of floundering gracelessly like he had.

They stared at each other, gaping, a mutual _what the hell was that!?_ passing soundlessly between them for a fair few seconds before the chatter of excited children filtered out from the school building.

He and Ladybug turned to the source of the noise as one.

A crush of happy children poured out of the double doors, babble staggering to a halt as the class realized, one by one, that, yes, those _were_ the heroes of Paris standing on the edge of their playground.

Then, as one entity, they surged forward in a rush, incomprehensible babble coming back with a vengeance and becoming more comprehensible with every foot they approached.

"Ladybug!" and "Chat Noir!" were the easiest and most common out of the auditory slush, followed by "What are you doing here?" and "Is there an akuma?"

"Ah," said Chat, shooting his partner a grin, unable to resist. "It seems we've been... _spotted_."

" _Was that a pun._ "

Chat only had time to choke back a self-satisfied snicker before the fastest of the children, a tall, sprightly young girl, hit him at waist height, babbling, "You saved my sister! Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Chat crouched, self-satisfaction shifting out for something softer, kinder. "All in a day's work, young lady."

The girl giggled, and Chat tapped her button nose, smiling involuntarily for what felt like the umpteenth time today.

It was a good day.

The other children had other questions, "Can you play with us?" and "What's your favorite color?" and, oddly, "Do you like garbanzo beans?" all hitting the two heroes at machine-gun pace, but all Ladybug had to do was hold her hands up in a gesture for silence and the whole crowd went silent.

"Don't worry," she said into the silence, commanding. She held up a finger with every question she answered, and Chat mused that they may just as well be at that press conference. "There is no akuma. We're here because we took a wrong turn. My favorite color is pink, and I do like garbanzo beans, but I'm not too sure about Chat." She tilted a little grin at him before her face fell back into military seriousness. "And I'm sorry, but we can't stay to play. We have somewhere important to be."

The chatter turned into a wave of disappointed protests and pleading eyes, and Chat could see Ladybug's resolve waver just a fraction.

"It's just a press conference," he found himself pointing out. He wasn't sure if it was the dark smudges under her eyes or the exhausted kind of longing he caught in that waver that made him say it, but he warmed to the idea quickly.

She needed a break.

"It's just publicity. No one's gonna get hurt if we don't show up."

"We have responsibilities, Chat."

The flat, defeated tone she said it in just sealed the deal for him.

"Not big ones," he added, tilting his head just a little with his most winsome smile. "What's the worst that could happen?"

The girl whose sister they'd saved joined him in his pleading, followed quickly by several other children.

"Please, Ladybug?"

Ladybug's eyes flicked from one pleading face to the next, resolve crumbling like dust. She cast Chat a dark look for his betrayal.

He touched her elbow, holding it loosely as he said to her in an undertone, "Forget about the press conference and about my dad. One day off won't hurt."

Exhausted eyes fell to his hand, and something strange flashed through Ladybug's eyes. She pulled her arm away and mumbled, " _Chat_. We have _responsibilities._ "

" _Ladybug._ " He hadn't meant to sound so urgent, but that exhaustion was wrapping anxious little thorns around his heart. "You need a break. Please."

She was going to argue, he could see it, and he didn't think he had any counter arguments this time. She opened her mouth, took a breath, and—

Stopped.

She looked at him, _really_ looked at him, and stopped. Something flashed in her eyes, a mix of shock and aching uncertainty and something unidentifiable, infinitesimal, _huge_ , and she finished off with, "Okay."

Chat let go, feeling like his world was rocking to bits and unable to pinpoint precisely _why_.

* * *

Chat loved kids.

They were bright, innocent, _clean_ in a way that had nothing to do with germs or runny noses.

They had no rigid preconceptions, no complex social rules, no hate burned into their mindsets; just a motherlode of energy and imagination that was a joy to witness.

You could make a child's day with a gift and a few well-chosen words, watch them light up even after the most traumatizing of akuma attacks with only attention and a small gesture. They were credulous, starry-eyed, enthusiastic - every day was an adventure or a thrill, something worth _feeling something_ about. They were simultaneously selfish and giving, oblivious and _empathetic_ in the way only the truly innocent could be.

There was a reason Ladybug left him to the clean up when children were involved, even if it meant facing down the media alone.

In the space of that afternoon, Chat was a king, a lord, a hero, a monster, a robot, and a horse. He was killed in action five times and only resurrected twice. He instated 'victory knights,' who were honor-bound to protect his kingdom together (a feat for the shy girl and the schoolyard bully, but he kept a close eye on them and made sure they worked it out) and was dared into seeing how many children he could carry at once (five, as it turned out — a number seriously hampered by how delicate and wriggly his burdens were).

The third time he was 'killed,' Ladybug was summoned from the tea party the girls had trapped her into.

"Only true love's kiss will break the spell!" insisted his first victory knight, the shy wall-flower who'd run for backup at his 'death.'

Ladybug, previously giggling at being dragged from the climbing structure into the middle of an all-out _war_ , fell abruptly silent.

Chat felt his breath hitch.

One month ago, he would have jumped at the chance to tease, to flirt — hell, even yesterday he might've let the setup be, let Ladybug talk her way out of it - but now, so soon after that almost kiss, so soon after watching her wake, in the midst of whatever the hell their relationship was right now, the possibility that she might _not_ talk her way out of it inexplicably _terrified_ him.

He staggeringly raised a fist a few inches off the ground and groaned out, "Fist... bump..."

"Fist bump?" echoed Ladybug, odd note coloring her voice thick.

He made a show of cracking open an eye. "True... love's... fist bump issss... even stronger..."

His first victory knight shushed him without remorse. "You can't talk if you're dead, your majesty."

He blinked both eyes open and grinned sheepishly at his loyal servant. "Sorry, Sir Bella."

" _Shh!_ "

He cleared his throat and shut his eyes again, trying not to grin.

Ladybug didn't say the word, but he could practically hear the affectionate 'dork' in her long-suffering (yet slightly relieved — and just what was he supposed to think about _that?_ ) sigh as she padded her way over through the grass.

There was a moment of hesitation in which he worried (hoped?) she might ignore the out and actually stoop to kiss him, but then he felt the familiar press of her knuckles against his, gentler than he was used to feeling them but unmistakable all the same. His chest caved in a confused jumble of relief and disappointment.

He covered the emotion by slowly raising his arms and sitting up zombie-style. He slowly opened his eyes and prepared his 'uuuugh... braaaaainssss...' speech, only to lock gazes with a chubby young sprout who, Chat remembered suddenly, had adamantly refused any mention of zombies. Chat switched out his speech on the fly.

"I am the Great Crusher Robot 5000," he said in his most robotic voice to a chorus of delighted squeals. "I have arisen from mere mortal flesh by the power of True Love's Fist Bump to protect the earth from the deadly Smorgs from outerspaaaaace."

And then the game was off again.

Ladybug was dragged off again by the limpet clinging to her leg and it was discovered that Chat could toss any seven year old clear into the air, and robots and 'true love' were summarily forgotten.

(The tossing was a nerve-wracking experience for heroes whose catching appendages ended in _claws_ , but Chat was very careful and somehow it all worked out bloodlessly.)

The leader of the opposition's sudden remembrance of The Great Crusher Robot 5000's evil qualities worked out slightly less so, but scraped knees weren't something Chat had the power to prevent one-hundred percent of the time, so he let it go.

It was at about that point that he felt eyes on him, and he turned to find Ladybug watching him from atop the jungle gym, chin in palm, expression distant.

He caught her eye, and tilted his head in silent question.

She smiled, soft and wistful, and his breath caught.

“You…” She trailed off, glancing away and back, the flutter of eyelashes and clear _blueblueblue_ eyes catching him on the upswing. “You’d make a good father.”

His heart stopped.

He—

He’d misheard that, hadn’t he?

_Hadn’t he?_

(That little bit of his brain that was mostly Chat and that did not. Shut. Up. _Ever._ said, _Great! I’m ready. Let’s get started. Right now. **Immediately**_.

The rest of him just reeled wildly for the umpteenth time today.)

She turned away, back to her tea party, still smiling that smile that left him unsteady on his feet.

The children swarmed around his legs, pressing into the backs of his knees in an attempt to bring The Great Crusher Robot 5000 down, but he could barely feel them.

“But Ladybug, Chat Noir isn't old enough to be a daddy. He’s a _boy_ ,” protested the little girl who’d been hanging onto her, in the well-informed tone of a child who had heard that exact phrase many, many times before.

Her sibling must have been a fan, or something, Chat thought distantly.

(— _chips of ice, blue like antifreeze_ —

The corners of his heart whispered _was it even **possible** for him to be a good father?_ )

“Boys grow up, you know,” she said, meltingly soft in a way that kick-started his heart back into gear and straight into overdrive. “He won’t be too young to be a daddy forever.”

Chat Noir, protector of Paris against the forces of superpowered evil for three years running, fell in battle to a pile of seven year olds very quickly after that.

* * *

A few weeks later, Chat wondered, not for the first time, why on earth the Protectors of Paris Ball was held _outdoors_.

It was held in late fall every year. Surely someone, _someone_ would have though to move the party _indoors_ out of the freezing cold.

It was a bit strange that Chat seemed to be the only one who noticed this, being that he was the only one here wearing a cold-resistant suit, but notice he did, if only by the goosebumps on his lady's arms.

He blamed (thanked) the cold for the way she leaned into him, sweet-smelling and looking like... like _that_.

Like heaven and hell in high heels, except that she wore flats, not heels. Mobility was a higher priority than glamour, she'd told him multiple times over the years, even when surrounded by the rich and famous.

Like a princess, like a queen, like something ethereal alighted on the surface of his world, as present and enticing and _real_ as she was untouchably out of his league.

And the more she tipped that affectionate little smile up at him, the harder it was to keep his hands _off._

She made it a lot harder by choosing that moment to break through his revere, stepping dangerously close.

"Hey," she murmured.

Chat's hand came to rest on the small of her back before he could think about it.

He shot a small glare at the offending appendage. Just where did it get off trying to bring her even _closer?_

Before he could remove the hand, Ladybug slipped her palm up to rest on his hip, burning warm through the suit. "Let's dance."

Chat blinked. That was odd; normally she waited until most of the guests had greeted them before trusting him with her dignity on the dance floor. He followed the line of sight she was pointedly turned away from, and understood — the young man walking their way was a rather... ardent admirer of Ladybug's. One who had a bit of trouble with the word 'no,' as he'd proved multiple times over the years.

Chat grit his teeth, sudden rush of ill will towards the 'gentleman' souring in his mouth, fingers twitching in his annoyance.

The last bit brought his attention to the exact placement of his fingers — tangled with the laces at the bottom of Ladybug's bodice.

_Oh._

The darker voices in his head happily pointed out how _easy_ it would be to sharped his claws and slice through those bindings. He didn't get farther than imagining the dress sliding down her shoulders before he forcibly defenestrated the thought and guiltily untangled his fingers. He slid his hand over to a much more appropriately platonic space high on her hip, _incidentally_ drawing her that much closer.

Oops.

Ladybug didn't help him keep his distance at all, instead tucking the long, hot line of her body into his, close enough that her rosy cheek brushed his suit, close enough to rest her chin against his shoulder and grin winsomely.

Chat's heart was trying to punch a hole in his ribcage even before she opened her mouth.

"Isn't that what dates do at dances? Dance?"

_Dates._

Was this a date?

They arrived together — they always did. It had never been a date before, but things had _changed_ between them, leaving Chat thoroughly lost on what they were now.

But here they were, _together_ , and she called them _dates._

"I... wasn't aware we were dates."

"Ah, sorry," she said, pulling back while _still smiling_. "I forgot that I sent that memo by snail-mail."

She stepped even closer, breath ghosting against the space below his ear and sending a hot shudder down his spine, pooling, quivering in his belly. "Consider this your update?"

"Considerate it considered," he whispered back, wondering if she could feel his palm shaking, wondering if she could feel his _heart_ shaking from this close.

She poked his side, grinning bright and impudent and _oh so warm_. "Then _consider_ you and me dancing. Sometime in the next week would be nice."

"I'll pencil you in for next Saturday," he promised, brushing his nose against hers and feeling it in the hairs on the back of his neck, in his ribcage.

She was _beautiful_ and _dangerous_ and _Ladybug_ and _Marinette_ and _she was his date._

This might well be the best night of his life.

Electric eyes and a childish ( _adorable_ ) pout at the ready, she twisted away and said, "Well, I guess I'll just go and take my empty dance card over..."

"Oh, would you look at that," said Chat over her smug grin, reeling her back in. "My schedule has _miraculously_ cleared. Free evenings as far as the eye can see."

"You _dork_."

The reproof was lost in the _joy_ of the endearment, and he was laughing in spite of himself as he lead her out onto the floor.

She chased him, fingers tangled with his, lilting giggles cascading around his ears from distracting, cherry-red lips, and he didn't even try to tell himself he hasn't been dreaming of this for weeks.

He whirled around as soon as his foot hit the designated dancing square, lightly populated with polite, social dancers, and grinned at his date.

His _date._

He could walk on air right now.

Ladybug shot him a _look_ , one that was probably meant to be condemning or quelling or _something_ , but she was flushed and smiling and sweet and so gorgeous he was absolutely sure he was about to make an utter fool of himself on the dancefloor, and the effect was lost on him.

His date.

"I still can't dance," Ladybug admitted on a sigh, apparently having accepted his smug good cheer as something she couldn't change.

"You really do need to learn how one of these days," he reminded her wryly as she stepped into his arms, so close she could probably hear his heart pounding. "What will Paris think if they find out their darling Lady Luck doesn't know so much as a waltz?"

She poked his chest. "C'mon kitty, why would I need to learn when I have you?"

"My lady, one would almost think you _enjoy_ needing to rely on me and my sweet dance moves at these events," he teased, breathless.

He knew that wasn't the reason she never got dance lessons — their lives were both busy enough between their civilian responsibilities and vigilante activities — but the night was intoxicating ( _she_ was intoxicating) and a boy could dream, couldn't he?

She didn't deny it.

Ladybug bit her scarlet lip and flashed him a coy, guilty little smile, and Chat tripped over his own two feet.

Oh god, she _didn't deny it._

She did, however, stumble into him, nose nudging into the crook of his neck and light perfume hitting him like a pillow to the face.

"Sorry," he croaked out of a _very_ dry mouth, steadying her automatically.

She didn't take her face out of his neck, and when she did, it was with a flush a few shades darker than her previous and a case of shyly fluttering eyelashes.

She ran a gloved fingernail over the groove where his shoulder-pad attached to the rest of his suit, sliding over the stud at the point, studying it as though it was the most fascinating thing in the room.

"Is that really so surprising?" she mumbled quietly, as though she wasn't sure whether she wanted to be heard or not.

She was trying to _kill him_.

"I-I mean, you _are_ my partner." she tacked on slightly louder, hurried and defensive. "It's not weird to ask you to help me with this... is it?"

She ended on a much weaker note than she started, giving him an insecure little glance that faltered away as soon as he met it, cheeks tinting even darker.

She was trying to kill him, and she was succeeding.

"I-I can take lessons!" she babbled on, taking his silence as an affirmative, rather than a sign of his impending death. "If you mind! I mean, I thought you didn't mind, but if you do I really don't—"

"I don't mind," Chat finally managed to get out, rediscovering the air he'd left behind in his lungs when she gave him that little glance.

She gnawed her lip, disturbing the cosmetics. "You sure?"

"Really sure," he said, possibly a bit too fervently. He was really very, very sure. "You can ask me for _anything._ "

The smile he got for that made his ears burn.

"Then can I ask you for this dance?" she said, soft and low and really very close to his heated ear and...

Oh.

They were half-way into the song already.

Blushing out of embarrassment this time, he tugged her into the steps, counting the rhythms in his head.

But hearing her ask if she could rely on him and _actually having her rely on him_ were two very different beasts indeed.

She followed him as easily, as smoothly as he followed her in battle. They were normally in-sync to an insane degree, honed by years of saving each other's lives, by years of teamwork and implicit, absolute trust, by years of a life where non-verbal communication and attention to minuscule cues and shared glances were the keys to survival and victory both, but this...

This was something else entirely.

They weren't fighting for their lives.

They were dancing.

They were moving together in an activity that existed purely for recreation, for pleasure and exercise, twisting together in low light, in fairy lights, physically intimate in full view of all of Paris.

She was trusting him to keep her from screwing up in front of all of Paris, and she was trusting him to do that with her eyes closed. Literally.

He swallowed hard and carefully twirled her into a spin, watching her as her skirts swirled around her thighs, the graceful follow-through of her off-hand, the peaceful smile that never left her face.

Her eyes didn't open once.

He took a deep, steadying breath and pulled her back against him, hand holding one wrist aloft as the other spread over her stomach almost of its own accord.

She leaned back and arched into him, letting his clawed fingers slide up the bodice of her dress until they rested just under the butterfly of her ribs, and turned her face into him, eyelashes fluttering against the corner of his jaw.

"Doing okay?" he checked. His voice came out rougher than he expected, but just about as affected as he thought it might.

"Mmmn," she hummed, seemingly only half awake.

Chat's mind took that noise and ran headlong into the gutter with it.

She leaned into him even further, so close her could feel her lips curl against his skin.

"I'm good," she whispered, throaty and relaxed and _mind-liquifying_. "You, kitty?"

Well, his knees were a lot weaker than they had been five seconds ago, but he was good.

He wouldn't make it through this dance if she kept that up.

Impulsively, he pinched her side, and with his most annoying smirk, he said, "Claw-some, my lady."

If they'd been alone, she would have squawked. As it was, she made a muffled noise of outrage and yanked back a few inches to give him a look of utter betrayal.

He took those few inches of grace gratefully, and shot her a not-quite-sheepish grin as apology.

She narrowed her eyes and stepped lively, skipping out of his arms with a dangerous look in her eye.

He wondered briefly if he'd made a terrible mistake, and then she was pulling him into a twist identical to the one he'd just pulled her through, except instead of ending with him in _her_ arms, she dipped him low, sly smirk on her face and nose mere centimeters from his own.

"Getting frisky there, eh, kitty?" she purred, cerulean eyes gone velveteen-dark and ocean-bottomless.

Oh _fuck._

He strangled himself on a yip, a noise that might have been an agreement or could have just been a squeak, forced out through the static silence in his head, and she let him up.

Ladybug took the lead this time, although less in a dancing capacity and more in a safeguard capacity, making sure they didn't run into anyone while Chat recovered his bearings.

She was trying to kill him, but at least she was being polite about it.

He trembled his way through a turn or three, moving more off sheer muscle memory than any sort of design, mind tumbling over the exact cadences, the dimensions of that tiny little crack in her voice, the wavelength of _that purr_ , and Ladybug guided him through it, keeping him safe while he recovered from _her._

"That was unfair," he hissed at her under his breath as she pulled him close in a move that would have his late instructor rolling in his grave.

" _That_ was revenge," she hissed back at him, flashing white teeth against red lips in a little smirk that set him back several steps on the road to recovery.

He huffed at her, trying to hold on to his annoyance in the face of that look.

He failed. His blood had scorched his veins at the very sight of it.

They fell back into the rhythm of the dance, staying on for the next set and the one after that and the one after _that_ , slipping into improv when the dances he'd been taught just wouldn't cut it (or just weren't enjoyable enough — he'd been taught nearly every formal dance in the book, but Chat was not a rule-follower, or a square). Ladybug followed him through them all, not distinguishing between the well-known, the lesser-known, and the entirely made-up, warm and soft and solid and in his orbit.

* * *

It wasn't until the band announced they were packing up that he realized they had honest-to-god _danced the night away._

The crowd had thinned greatly, the hosts showing people out in droves, only the most tenacious of the journalists left to document the going ons, Alya among them. Chat was pretty sure she'd stick around until she was kicked out.

"Looks like the party's over," Ladybug noted, surprised enough that he suspected he'd lost track of time as badly as he had.

She stroked his bicep quietly, and he took it as a signal to let her go. He hesitated, holding on for as long as he felt he could get away with, before reluctantly convincing his fingers, his hands, his arms to release her.

The late-night air hit him hard through his suit, swirling in the spaces she left behind when she stepped back. She flashed him a little smile as she moved, and he returned it, pretending his body wasn't aching in protest of letting her go.

He watched her survey the party, looking for the host so they could say their goodbyes, admired the slope of her nape and the stray locks that had escaped her elaborate up-do as she chased the man down and made their excuses.

This dance had shown him something he hadn't fully grasped before.

_Ladybug **trusted** him._

Finishing up, she tittered politely at something the host had said and walking backwards towards Chat. She waved one final time at the host and turned on her heel. By the time she faced Chat, the forced smile had melted into a look of exasperated exhaustion, shoulders slumped and skin right around her eyes.

"Done?" she asked, all too obviously ready to leave.

She trusted him.

"Yeah," he said. "Just a second."

She tilted her head curiously.

He took her hand and carefully slipped off the glove, catching the tips and sliding the material away, and then he met her eye and held it.

Slowly, he raised her bare hand to his lips, heart thumping erratically in his throat as her eyes went wide.

She trusted him.

He kissed the tips of her fingers, smiling at her without really meaning to, ignoring the storm of gaps and suddenly flickering camera flashes from the remaining media people.

She let him.

_She trusted him._

"Ch-Chat- what?" Her voice fluttered, exertion-flushed cheeks flushing even darker.

"Thank you," he said, a note of something in his voice he didn't want to name, something that gave those two words far too many meanings. He hurriedly tacked on, "—for the lovely evening, my lady. It was an honor to escort you."

Her shock-slack red lips twitched up into a wobbly smile, an odd look in her eye as her trembling fingers curled into his.

She trusted him.

She really, really trusted him. She trusted him to catch her, she trusted him with her back, she trusted him with their friendship, with her laughter and her joy and her dreams.

She trusted him with her dignity. With her insecurities.

She'd always trusted him with her life. Now, she trusted him with her identity, too.

They were getting closer all the time, and it had a way of making him hope. A way of making him wonder.

A way of making him think maybe, maybe, maybe one day...

Maybe one day, she'd trust him with her heart too.

* * *

Adrien pushed open the gate of the cat shelter, leading Marinette in behind him.

He hadn't had to beg for this, surprisingly. The lion's share of her work for the fashion show was over and done with, and when he'd suggested that she join him on one of his volunteer visits, she'd agreed almost immediately.

The look on her face when he introduced her to one of the older litters was well worth the entirely too knowing grin Sonia, the head volunteer, had given him when he'd walked in shoulder-to-shoulder with the girl he'd been talking about for weeks. Like she knew exactly how big it was to bring Marinette here, to a place this important to him.

(Like she knew he was practically under a compulsion, slowly introducing Marinette to every little nook and cranny of his life and praying to God she liked what she saw while wondering just what the hell he was _doing_.)

Marinette, for her part, seemed to be experiencing revelation.

Adrien had introduced her to The Hoard.

(Or so the batch of older, weaned kittens were affectionately termed by their caretakers.)

"Why hel _lo,_ " she cooed at the gaggle of kittens, hands clasped on her knees as she stooped close to them. She followed it up with a delighted squeak as one of the kittens batted her necklace.

Nursing the infant kittens was a time-consuming job, but it was methodical: suckle and toilet them, stroke as necessary. It was one of Adrien's favorite jobs.

It was also somewhat mindless, and left him with enough attention to watch Marinette out of the corner of his eye.

She took to the kittens almost immediately, which was completely unsurprising — the only person Adrien had met who didn't like kittens was Chloe — but somewhat more surprising was how quickly the kittens took to Marinette.

Forget eating out of her palms — all she had to do was hold her hands out and she had them attempting to _climb into them,_ the more adventurous clawing their way up her chest in their quest for more pets.

He muffled a laugh in his shoulder when a little black tom made it high enough to sniff her chin, the infant on his knee complaining softly at the jostling. Petting its tiny head with a whispered apology, Adrien turned away to focus more fully on his task.

His focus lasted all of ten seconds before his mind started to wander.

He watched Marinette play with the kittens out of the corner of his eye, watched her nearly leap out of her apron (now wasn't that a thought) at a kitten's surprise attack from behind, and found himself snickering all over again.

"Careful," he couldn't help but call over. "Don't you know that seven out of ten attacks are from the rear?"

"I'll attack _you_ from behind," she sniped back without heat, distracted almost immediately by her charges of the afternoon.

"Please do," he quipped, returning his eyes to the fed kitten, putting away the bottle and picking up the paper towel.

Marinette whipped around to stare at him, and, belatedly, he realized what he'd just said.

_Shit._

"Please forget I said that," he begged, flushing and paling at once.

"...I think that might be worse than the time you said, 'or what, you'll spank me?'"

"You started it," he grumbled, ears and neck heating up. _Oh god **why**._

Marinette scooted up to him sideways, leaning into his space with a shit-eating grin, kitten in her lap and elbow on his shoulder. "So..."

"Don't start."

"What kind of 'attacking' were you thinking about, kitty?"

"Stop."

"Because it looked to me like—..."

"I will _pay you_ to stop."

"Thinking such things in front of the children." She _tsk_ed, slowly shaking her head, still grinning. "For _shame_."

"Do you want your money in fabric, cash, or cheese?"

"Video game time." She spread the fingers of the hand attached to the elbow that rested on his shoulder, grin going downright _sleazy_. "For five rounds of Ultimate Mecha Strike 2, I will stop."

"That game ruined the series," Adrien groused, almost en route at this point.

Marinette made a disparaging noise in the back of her throat and pushed off of him to cradle the kitten to her chest.

"Don't listen to your father," she cooed to the little black tom, effectively stopping the heart of the other 'black tom' in the room. "He speaks _lies_."

He took a second to catch his breath again before shooting back, "I speak _only_ the truth. UMS2 is an _abomination_. Your mother is consorting with—"

_Oh hell did he just call Marinette his **wife?**_

His 'wife' stared at him with big, shocked blue eyes, going pinker and pinker as the words sunk in, then coughed and looked away.

Adrien returned to the kitten in his lap, holding the paper towel in one numb hand and wondering what it was for, drowning in embarrassment and trying not to think too hard about just how it felt to say those words.

(It felt like belonging.)

"So," said Sonia, looking in on them with a leer. "When's the wedding?"

Marinette _screamed_ , launching both herself and the kitten up and backwards, flailing limbs narrowly missing the horde at her feet.

Sonia burst out laughing.

"Sorry, sorry," she gasped, catching a tear at the corner of her eye with a gloveless finger. "You two are just too cute, y'know?"

"No," Marinette grumbled, pink and baleful and plucking furry denizens off of her apron, making sure they were unhurt as she did so. "I really don't."

Adrien expelled a relieved breath.

She was okay.

"Mhmm..." Sonia hummed, setting her chin on the heel of her palm with a grin that was equal parts smug, knowing, and amused. "Well—" and here she straightened back up, "—try to finish up in the next fifteen minutes or so, okay? We have a schedule to keep."

Adrien and Marinette nodded obediently in sync, and Marinette picked herself up, careful of the kittens.

"Oh," Sonia added as she left. "Not that I wouldn't understand, but please try to keep the hanky-panky to the minimum. Think of the children!"

Marinette spluttered, and Adrien spluttered with her, despite knowing Sonia full well and _knowing_ he should have expected that parting remark.

"'Hanky-panky,'" Marinette muttered, echoing his thoughts rather succinctly, though with considerably more aspiration, picking up the black tom again and brushing his fur with her fingertips. She softened immediately.

Adrien could only describe what happened next as a revelation.

She tipped back, nose-to-nose with the tiny black kitten in her palms, giddy, giggly grin on her mouth, eyes scrunched at the corners with her joy, the stress of her week fading, slipping of her shoulders in the face of that young whiskery critter.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, a different kind of affection softening her countenance, and stuck her tongue out. _Jealous, kitty?_

The smile was nothing he hadn't seen a hundred, a thousand times before, warm and happy and trusting and teasing and here with him, present and solid and real, but that was what did it. It was no big thing - a little thing, a minuscule thing, really - but that was what made it _click._

 _Oh,_ he thought.

_It's you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now don't touch me for, like, a year


End file.
